Disintegration
by Angelfirenze
Summary: He wonders when it got so easy to just...let them all think what they wanted. Because they had. Post-'Half-Wit' AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Disintegration**_  
By__Angelfirenze_

**Disclaimer:** Shore, Jacobs, Singer, et al., own everything. The lyrics belong to various bands. The books mentioned belong to the authors who wrote them.

**Summary:** He wonders when it got so easy to just...let them all think what they wanted. Because they had.

**Rating: FRM** for various reasons that have yet to materialize completely.

Reviews are always encouraged and appreciated.

_...Last year's wishes are this year's apologies...Every last time I come home I take my last chance to burn a bridge or two..._

He gets on the bike and just...drives. The scenery is a blur and he likes it that way. The voices, the memories, and that all-encompassing smell (like day-old coffee grounds topped off with a lit fart--possibly an intestinal rupture) are less tangible and he can pretend just a little bit that they don't exist. The season was late, forgot to mark his birthday as that time to make everyone's lives hell, and is now trying to make up for it in as quick and shoddy a way possible. The road home from Boston is slick and treacherous with late winter sleet (already cleared, piling up yet again) and he's a good deal less careful than he knows he should be. Somehow, he makes it home in one piece. He doesn't know if he should thank or curse whoever made it possible. Their faces flicker through his (just barely there) consciousness. So he says thank you, slowly, quietly, to the ones he's most certain about. His mother gets a thank-you and somewhere above him, the blurriness that's become his vision as of late extends to his mind's eye. Her hair is less shiny, her eyes less hazel. Her smile (usually filtered with what little sunlight there seems to be left) is getting shaky. He doesn't like that so he opens his eyes. He's on the floor on his back and doesn't remember how he got there. His left side hurts but he's too tired to do anything about it so he shifts into a more comfortable position on his hallway floor and goes to sleep.

He keeps having little lost moments, where he can't figure out how what got where. At first, he'd assumed it was because of the ketamine. Then everything started sliding downhill and he tried to care, to forestall the hurricane, but didn't have enough strength. Didn't have the urge, really, to give a damn. It's become a long-lost luxury, trust--not that they hadn't been passing acquaintances to begin with. Because he doesn't have any now. He remembers being able to trust and part of it makes him want to laugh because he'd honestly thought the hardship that came with the caring (that sneakiest of sidecar passengers) was just...card and parcel, part of the package.

But the first rip at the (apparently not industrial strength) tape came when he trudged into Cuddy's office, fire licking up and down his leg (was he the only one around able to see the flames, smell the smoke, feel the searing) and she'd looked at him with that dismissive glint in her eyes and told him to get a fellow to do it. He'd been so desperate, he'd actually resorted to wheedling.

She'd done it, then, and for a while, his trust (though shaken and stirred) had allowed him to believe that it had worked. Then he'd watched her smirk at him with self-satisfaction and wave her hair in his face as she sang what he later termed 'The Placebo Song.' He hasn't been able to listen to that band since then, but tonight their lyrics won't leave him alone.

_Remember me when you're the one who's silver-screened...Remember me when you're the one you always dreamed...Remember me whenever noses start to bleed...Remember me...Special needs..._

He realizes he's rambling and that there isn't actually any music playing, and he catches himself. Tells his Inner Greg to shut the hell up for once. Doesn't he have anything better to do? He's sure Miss December, 1979, is still up there somewhere in one of the file cabinets. Hell, if not, then Carmen Electra will do. Just leave the rest of him out of it, please, he wants to sleep.

Then he wonders when the hell sleep sounded more appetizing than sex. He doesn't have any day-old children to take care of, after all. He exhales sharply and sits up.

He feels wetness over his mouth, lifts a hand to his face and his fingers come away bloodied. He wants to laugh just a tiny little bit, then, because didn't he see an _X-Files_ episode like this? Scully was in a departmental meeting or briefing or something, he vaguely recalls. He's glad he hasn't courted that particular death anymore than strictly necessary. But Scully had had cancer then, too. Everyone expected her to go crawling into a church and beg God to heal her, but she hadn't. Her relationship, she'd said, was between her and God and she would let things follow their own course down here. Whatever God's doing up there...well, let's hope those efforts make the straits a little wider, more easily passed.

He remembers that Mulder was the only one who truly understood her need for space. Cuddy got it, eventually, during his first trip to Mass Gen and she, alone, gave him the chance to breathe that he'd needed. Then his fellows had come rushing to the door, glowing and bright because it wasn't cancer for him, not at all. It was neurosyphillis and the fact that there are only so many ways you could contract it hadn't even occurred to them. It was strange, how empty he felt after he told them it wasn't his case.

Some masochistic part of him wanted to get the real case file, still sealed tight in its US Postal Service Air Mail envelope and sitting right within his reach on his computer desk. But he didn't. He wonders when it got so easy to just...let them all think what they wanted. Because they had. Foreman still won't look him in the face, Cameron refuses to fix him coffee in the morning and that might arouse suspicion if he let anything but guilt arise on his face. Chase is the only one who hasn't acted any differently. Even when he lashed out and punched Chase in the face, even when he made comments about Australian animals and short shorts, Chase just seemed to take it in stride with a strange sort of smile on his face. He wonders why.

Chase had hugged him in his office and lied about crying, but there had been a large wet spot on his shoulder and Chase's hands had trembled in his grip. He was afraid and hadn't hidden it very well. He seemed to barely have tried. And that was when House, too, knew it was real. There wasn't going to be waking up from the last year and seeing that it turned out to be some extended ketamine-induced hallucination. Those where quite short and manifested themselves most tangibly at night when he'd wake up cold (colder than his power bill--always paid with direct deposit--should have allowed) and he would shower until the heat ran out before curling up under three blankets and doing calculus in his head to try and distract himself from the fact that Steve didn't seem the least bit bothered by the arctic feel of the apartment. He knew rats only sweat through their tails, but he wants to make sure his favorite (and only...and...oh, my Lord, did he just para-quote _The Lion King_?) rodent in the whole universe was better than he was. But the door latch has been giving him trouble. His fingers are getting clumsy and while that's okay on a piano because you can explore, it's less okay when wielding a scalpel. It's starting to hurt to use the cane on his right and he's given the weakened left a few trials, but that hasn't worked out at all if the healing bruises under his shirts are any indication. There always seem to be various contusions and it hurt to move more often than not now. And when he could, sometimes an invisible hand would poke him and make him stumble. He's taken to gripping his walls as often as possible. The maintenance crew at work continually complains to Cuddy about the fingerprints he leaves all over the walls just as soon as they're done polishing them.

So he went back to Boston on the train (because he barely trusts himself to get home or to work on his bike now, let alone to another state) and he let them poke and prod them and he didn't talk, didn't look at them. He undressed and let them stare at his leg and prod him some more, answered their questions and they gave him strange, fake reassurance in their faces when he blanked out in the middle of a response and again when it took a five minute break before he could successfully count down in nines from ninety-nine to sixty-three.

They watched him list to the side and lean heavily on the cane as he went to the bathroom for the urinalysis and seemed to notice that the leg wasn't why that time. Shitter was kind enough to seize his car and its questionable origin means he'll never see it again unless there's a police auction sometime soon which he probably won't win because where's the 'fairness' in that?

They ask him if his vision is ever tilted, or whether he smells things that no one else does. At first he frustrates them, trying to answer as vaguely as possible, making sexist comments about the female attending and enjoying their barely-hidden scowls. Then embarrassment floods him as he tries to stand and not only is the deviant leg non-cooperative, but the supposed favorite had decided to throw a tandem revolt, as well. He fell fast and cracked the back of his head on the examination table, gaining their undivided attention and a tomography scan, which reveals a concussion as well as golf-ball sized mass near his parietal lobe.

"Shit," he heard one of them mutter, staring at the scan on the lightboard. "Well, there's no chance we can let him go--we'll have to admit--"

But he grabbed his cane from the side of the wheelchair the orderlies placed him in and hurled it as hard as he could. It flew and would have smacked both across the backs of their legs had it been remotely on target. Instead it hit the window and put a big, spidery crack in it.

The cane itself is still in good shape, resilient little bugger. _Takes a lickin'..._

"I'm snot---aying her," he tried to snarl, but the words wouldn't shape themselves properly. He thinks he's got a new appreciation for Zeppo from seven months ago. He took a breath and glared at them as harshly as he could manage. He turned the wheelchair expertly, glad that his perception and aim hadn't faltered that badly yet, and demands to the nurse that he wants to discharge himself AMA.

The nurse, a new student in the Gregory House School of Intimidation, hitched a breath and tried to persuade him, but he grabbed the edge of the counter above him, pretending for the moment that those weren't legs dangling uselessly below him and locking eyes with hers. He knows she can see that one of his pupils is quite enlarged and closes that one.

It's not like his peripheral vision has been doing him any favors recently anyway. "I am Dr. Gregory House, 'ead of Di-aggg..." He rides out the shame as his awareness fizzes out on the word and takes another breath before trying again. "Diagnostics at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospit-tal." There's only another little hitch that time and he ignores it.

"I'll call someone there to order a car service for me. My motorcycle can be picked up sometime tomorrow. If you want, you can have copies of my file faxed to Dr. Lisa Cuddy--she's my boss."

He knows they won't do that, but they consent to let him order a car to get home. He does, but he tells himself it's only because he's exhausted and wants to be able to enjoy the ride instead of wishing it would just end. He doesn't let himself dwell on the idea that those feelings might not only apply to the bike.

_...Been looking forward to the future, but my eyesight is going bad...And this crystal ball is always cloudy except for when you look into the past...One night stand..._

He has his first seizure in his office. He wakes up on the floor, the cane jutting out at an awkward angle from where he lies on the floor. It's dark and Wil...son...is shining something in his eyes. A wave of anger breaks over him and he'd jerk his shoulder out of Wilson's hand, but he's full of sand and grit; his throat salty and bitter. He tries to talk, to yell at Wilson to get the fuck out of his face and leave him the hell alone (like you've been doing for the past fucking year), but his voice won't work.

"Lisa, order a CAT scan," Wilson's telling the phone as he presses both of House's arms against the rough carpet beneath them to keep him still and House has never hated him more than he does in this moment. The hate he feels is palpable and he can feel it sliding out of the corners of his eyes and see it in the way the lights overhead get hazy around their edges and he's so tired, he just wants to go back to sleep. It'll help him stop being angry. He can pretend that they'd never stopped caring and that this is the way it's always been. So he does.

_(We don't fight fair) they say your head can be a prison...Then these are just conjugal visits...People will dissect us 'til this doesn't mean a thing anymore..._

He wakes up in a room. It's familiar, but dark and he can't decide for sure where he is. He wishes the two figures sitting in chairs at the end of his bed weren't there, either, because if they're there he can't pretend. He'd rather now they didn't talk, but Wilson was the last person to follow that directive on a good day. There are no more good days.

"You let--"

"I didn't do anything," he rasps, closing his eyes and grimacing at the way his throat hurts. Lisa gets up, walking about of his wobbly field of vision, to return from wherever with a plastic cup of ice chips. She's wearing latex gloves and when she tries to place one in his mouth, his arm cooperates enough to send the cup and its contents flying away. Lisa flinches, though he can only see it in the way her waist shifts and her legs scuttling back a few centimeters.

"You have a tumor," Cuddy began calmly, but Wilson cut her off, tossing the papers onto House's bed with a rare show of temper.

"_Glioblastoma multiforme_! An almost certain _death sentence_!" He snaps, and a bang sounds a second later. Another sound, plastic hitting the floor. The cup Cuddy must have picked up was just sent to the floor again. "You're going to die! You _knew_!"

"Of course I knew," He says, then, his voice so quiet, so still that both their blurry faces (he wonders where his new glasses are after going through all the trouble of getting them--he hopes they're not broken because he's gotten used to seeing only ones of things again) look at him. "Just like I _knew_ something was wrong with my leg. Just like I _know_ something is probably wrong with my liver. So what?"

"So...so..." Wilson stares at him and he glowers back, the anger he tries to keep buried coming back again. This time he lets it sit, pool, and curdle in his stomach. Sour, hot. He's so angry he might vomit. Then his body ricochets forward and he remembers that he's not just angry. Cuddy grabs an emesis basin from somewhere else and has it under his chin as the refuse spills forth. She's rubbing his back as his abdominal wall continues to clench and spasm. He sees colors more sharply than he has in months. Brown, white, something clear and viscous. And red. Only a little and it transfixes him, like it did when it came out of his nose. The spasms have ended for now but he still sits forward, staring into the basin.

He sees Cuddy's hands shake as she takes it upon herself to wet a nearby washcloth and wipe his face. The cloth is soft on his face and he leans into it before he can stop. His eyes burn and he doesn't realize he's crying until her arms surround his back.

"Get out," he says as forcefully as he can, but his voice is hoarse and further muffled by Cuddy's breasts. He usually likes them but not like this. Right now, he thinks he might hate her a little. She backs up a little and there are tears in her eyes and her hand runs through his hair (and his anger at her melts away like the errant ice cream drips he once licked off her thigh that day at Lake Michigan) so he alters his directive just a little. She stays.

"Make him get out," he says as loudly as he can, which isn't very.

"And there you go again," Wilson snaps, and House sinks back down onto the crook of Cuddy's neck. He's almost certain she can tell he's crying and hopes she doesn't share that face. "Pushing--"

"We lied to him," Cuddy says, her voice harder than it was a moment ago, but her hand is still soft on his back, rubbing against the residual dry heaves and he'd like nothing better than to go to sleep, but if he's asleep, he can't focus on the deep pressure on his back. He can't focus on the wall outside with all it's loudness and brightness and distraction and mess. Explorations could wait until later. Now was good for rest so he would grow big and strong.

He remembers thinking that maybe he could grow enough for Daddy to stop being mad because he was so small. But he didn't grow out, just up. He's still too damned skinny.

_You're perfect just the way you are._

_Hush, little baby, don't say a word..._

Maybe that was his mother's plan when she used to lay those pillows on top of him when he took his afternoon nap on the rug. It was a soft, heavy quiet and he's missed it for so long. But Cuddy was still talking, wasn't she?

"--we've lied to him, discounted him at every turn, drove him away from us because his trust and our word--as we proved time and time again--meant nothing. So don't you dare stand there atop your high horse and _lecture_ him for not letting us shoot him down yet again."

"But Wilson's _God_," he manages to croak, lacing the words with as much sarcasm and anger as he can muster at the moment and it's back, the fury, and he can hear Wilson gasp at those words.

"That's...not what...we were just..."

"You used to be my friend. Now you're sick of playing my fucking conscience. Where the hell has _your_ conscience been all this fucking time? Atlantic City? Was that when things started to be too much for you and you started to realize..." He's talking too much and running out of breath, but he can't seem to stop now. "That being my friend was getting to be too much so you decided to have my soul bumped off by one of my mob buddies? Well, so much for reliable connections..." He knows he's not making any sense but he thinks

_To hell with it_ and blunders on any-damned-way.

"Or was it when your patient turned out to have a serious disorder that you and your Amazing Wonder Boy Oncologist powers totally missed, putting him in a wheelchair and destroying his quality of life for eight years and--hey..." he pushes against Cuddy's shoulders to gain leverage but sucks at that, too, so he falls short of his target and can feel her hands gripping his arms and lowering him safely back to the pillow. His voice is getting hoarser and hoarser and he's crying again, but he's tired of trying to pretend like nothing hurts so that the ones who inflict it can say it's his fault and wash their hands of him.

"Speaking of quality of life, who the fuck cares _how_ someone lives just so long as they do, right? And if they tell you something's not working, you're sure it's something they must have done wrong and _can't_ be something _you_ did because you know everything and it's impossible that you could be the least bit responsible for how fucked up and miserable you make everyone you know, isn't that right, Dad?"

He's vaguely aware that they're looking at him like he's grown a second head and Cuddy's saying something, stroking his hair back and then he feels something in his ear and hears a beep.

"104.4--he's burning up," Cuddy's saying and she starts pulling the sheets and blankets off. And then there's something cold all over his body, but that's the last thing he remembers.

_...I'm a leading man and the lies I weave are oh so intricate..._

...TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

**Disintegration**  
_By Angelfirenze_

**Disclaimer:** Shore, Jacobs, Singer, et al., own everything. The lyrics belong to various bands. The books/book quotes mentioned belong to the authors who wrote them. Oh, and there's more for my fellow _X-Files_ fans. Don't look at me. The writers started it with "Cane and Able". ::cackles::

**Summary:** "I wanted his help. He didn't think I was desperate enough. Am I desperate enough now?"

**Rating: R** for reasons that are possibly locked away in that other part of Zaphod Beeblebrox's brain (yes, I was reading The Restaurant at the End of the Universe last night. The first four chapters were as lovely as the preceding book).

**Notes:** I really appreciate the response this story has had so far and I'm glad everyone who's read it seems to be enjoying it. It gives me a happy. Reviews are always encouraged and appreciated.

_And it came to me, then, that every plan is a tiny prayer to Father Time...as I stared at my shoes in the ICU that reeked of piss and 409..._

Wilson crumpled the empty paper cup in his left hand and turned it over his right to watch the remaining drops of coffee pool in his palm. He felt his stomach churn, plainly protesting against the unwanted contents he'd just forced down, but he welcomed the pain. If this was even a tenth of what House had felt over the past year, then he wanted it.

He shuddered and bit his lip for the countless time that night, glancing up at the clock to check the time. Two forty-two, am, and counting. House had been in his room here for nearly a day and a half. He felt his stomach drop through some sort of portal when he realized that in all the time House had been here, no one had thought to call his parents.

_Some friend you are,_ he berated himself silently for the millionth time._Some brother..._ Here, House was lingering--yet again--on the brink of death and no one had thought to notify his parents. What the hell has he been thinking for the last year, anyway? He had no excuses. His job, his divorces, Cuddy, and House seemed to be the only things approaching a constant in his life and he'd just about screwed them all into the ground.

_Boy Wonder Oncologist, indeed._ He shoved himself into a standing position, forcing himself to walk despite the exhaustion trying valiantly to pull him back down. If this was anything like House had endured...

_"James!"_ Lisa's voice rang out and he turned to face her, but his lack of equilibrium got the best of him and he began to topple over. Lisa surged forward and gripped the lapels of his lab coat before shoving him against the wall behind them. "What the hell do you think you're doing? You're going to wind up right next to him if you don't get some sleep soon." Lisa's voice was stern but soft. Nothing like he deserved. His stomach burned and he welcomed it.

"Left him all alone," he mumbled, trying to force his eyes back open again. He could vaguely feel Lisa's hands around his shoulders, propelling him somewhere. Then, abruptly, in his opinion, he felt himself being pushed back down onto something soft.

"James," Lisa commanded, her voice clear and firm again. "Go to sleep. I'll wake you when they get here."

"You called them?" His own voice sounded far away, vacant. "House's...huh...parents?"

"Yes, now sleep. I called Chase. He's coming in to monitor House's stats until you're able to do it yourself."

"He doesn't...want my...help..." James forced his eyes open and they burned as Lisa's lamplight came into view. He sniffled and turned away so that Lisa couldn't see his face.

"Shouldn't."

"He's always wanted our help. We just didn't notice." Her voice sounded funny, then. Different. But he was too tired to investigate why.

"You called his parents?" He asked, again, just to be sure.

"I promise, James."

_I promised him, too._ James thought miserably and then the heaviness took him.

_...Guessing that it's better that I can't keep myself together because all of this stress gave me something to write on...The pain gave me something I could set my sights on..._

He awoke to the feeling of a warm hand on his cheek. He couldn't open his eyes but couldn't get up the effort to care. He was just so...tired. He always was, now. He thought he'd get used to it eventually, but it seemed his short-term memory had made a pact to fail him.

"Open your eyes, Greg, dear," her voice said and he felt his brow furrow.

_What?_

"Greg, honey, can you hear me?"

"_Hai_," he grunted and he heard a laugh.

"Greg, speak English, hon," the soft voice said again and he swallowed.

"Gnuh sss.."

"Gregory, wake up," another voice said and his heart hurt. Something started beeping and the soft voice changed.

"John, don't you dare come in here snapping at him, do you hear me? You heard as much as I did what Lisa said." The voice wavered then and he felt his hand being squeezed a little more.

"I'm not--" The harder voice cut itself off and he felt himself sinking again. He frowned and opened his eyes. The room was blurry and indistinct.

"You need your glasses, sweetie," the soft voice said and his head turned toward it. He felt the cold, thin metal of the frames sliding over his face and blinked. Everything came into focus again. His parents were here. Here was the hospital.

"S-s..." he tried to speak, but his mother pressed a finger over his mouth. She looked at his father and the grey-haired Marine stared at him a second before going to the table across the room and filling a cup with water and a straw. His father handed it to his mother, who positioned the straw in his mouth. The water hit his mouth and he spat it back out, shivering violently and coughing. "Ahhh," he moaned, tears coming back to his eyes again. God, he was so tired of crying, but it was so cold.

"It's too cold, John," Mom was saying, wiping his face with another washcloth like Lisa had done when he'd thrown up. "He hates cold, you know that."

_He damned well should,_ he thought then and all the strength went out of him again. He began to slide forward but Mom caught him, pushing him gently back to the pillow.

"Tell Cuddy to stop pretending to be you," he whispered, glad the torment could at least serve a purpose. "It's freaking me out."

"What?" his mother asked, a little smile on her face and he wanted to shake his head but he was getting dizzy again. "Mom...Mom...tired..."

"I know, baby," she said softly, placing a hand on his arm.

"I'm sorry," he said as loudly as he could, hating the way his eyes were burning again. "Didn't believe..."

She squeezed his hand again and he wanted to scream, but he couldn't. "They thought I was lying. Maybe you did, too."

"Greg, no," Mom said, her voice firm and he opened his eyes again. She was blurry and he blinked. Still crying, God damn it. "You wouldn't lie about this. This isn't your fault. It never could be."

"Make him stay out," he muttered, his eyes closing again and he tried to force them back open. His mother moved her hand further up his arm and gave his bicep a little squeeze.

"Greg, if you want to sleep, dear, it's fine. You need to sleep. You're exhausted." Mom sighed. "Make who stay out?"

_Both of them,_ he wanted to say, but that would mean admitting the bastard was even here, so he amended his statement. "Wilson."

It was a minute before Mom answered and when she did, she was crying. "He's so sorry."

"Not sorry enough to listen."

"Does that include Lisa, too?"

"She's sorry," he said, and Mom wiped his face with the washcloth again.

"You think James isn't?"

It was back, then, the anger and the pain. "'I didn't want your wings to melt.' Bullshit. What wings? No wings at all. But lying's supposed to make things better." He felt himself sinking further and used what little momentum he had to curl into something resembling a ball. "I wanted his help. He didn't think I was desperate enough. Am I desperate enough now?"

He was shuddering again and everything was cold. He could feel his mother's arms squeezing him. Could feel his father's eyes on him.

"And you..."

"Me?" Dad was asking and he shivered some more.

"I'm the...one with the...'blem. Never tying...try...hard...'nough." He couldn't think anymore. "Tied...try...always...burden. Going 'way now. You'll happy, soon."

"What?!" Dad was saying something, coming closer. "No, Gregory, that's not--you think I don't love you? You think I want you to _die_?"

"Love...so much...you--" he took a deep breath and forced his eyes back open. "They hurt you and you couldn't return the favor. I'm not Prince Hamlet. I'm not Jesus Christ. Dad. I'm not even Ralph Nader. I am Gregory John

_(for I am John, named after a toilet for reasons I do not know_) Christopher House. Too bad. So sad. I'm going to die for no good reason and there's nothing anybody can do about it, so it's a good thing no one ever tried."

Then he goes back to sleep and doesn't know anything after that.

_...I remember what was taught to me...Remember condescending thoughts of who I ought to be...Remember listening to all of that and this again..._

...TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

**Disintegration**  
_By Angelfirenze_

**Disclaimer:** Shore, Jacobs, Singer, et al., own everything. The lyrics belong to various bands.

**Summary:** And for the first time she found herself faltering and stared down at her hands where they sat clasped on her desk. If they'd been flat, she knew they'd be shaking. The rest of her certainly was.

**Rating: R** for boundless amounts of angst.

**Notes:** A reference to a scenario I first breached in my post-ep for "Finding Judas. And I did promise **pilot** that I would start adding a **warning for major character death**, so now's as good a time as any, I suppose. Reviews are always encouraged and appreciated.

_...Sometimes, I wonder if I disappear would you ever turn your head and look, see if I'm gone...'Cause I feel there is nothing left to say to you that you want to hear..._

John House watched in mute horror as Gregory's body convulsed and thrashed, his back arching in what had to be a very painful angle before falling back to the bed and twisting into a new angle. He glanced at Blythe to see tears streaming down her face as they each watched Drs. Chase, Wilson, and Cuddy as well as several nurses restrain Gregory and place a blue piece of plastic in his mouth. The other two of Gregory's students, having been summoned by Dr. Wilson each took it upon themselves to herd both himself and his wife out of Gregory's room. John tried to resist and he could hear Blythe doing the same, but the young black man who had taken hold of his shoulders steered him outside and the one he'd known the longest--Dr. Chase--promptly closed the blinds so that they couldn't see what was going on.

As soon as the young doctor let go of his arms, John whirled around and yelled, "What the hell is going on in there? What's happening to Gregory?"

"He's experiencing what's called a clonic-tonic seizure. His brain is sending a flurry of movement signals to his limbs. He's not in any pain and he'll fall asleep almost immediately afterward." The younger man's voice was calm, but his eyes were glued to the blocked window. His colleague, whom he and Blythe hadn't seen since two years previous, seemed to be explaining something along the same lines as his wife.

"But you two don't know why," John demanded, anger and worry at war in his gut. "You two have no idea what the hell's going on with him!"

"With all due respect, Mr.--"

"Colonel," John corrected instantly, falling back into the habit of reminding civilians of his station. "Full Bird Colonel John House, United States Marine Corps."

The young man took a hurried breath. "With all due respect, _Colonel_, your son didn't tell us anything was wrong. In fact, he went to great lengths to make us believe nothing was the matter at all."

"Well, why the hell should he have? Everyone goin' around sayin' he's lying about every goddamned thing--"

"Regardless of that fact, Colonel, we aren't privy to your son's medical information. At this point, the situation is under control--"

At this point, Chase came out and called for Foreman's attention.

"Foreman, Wilson wants to get House down to Radiology for another CAT scan, MRI, and an LP to check his CSF. He and Cuddy want you and I to do them."

Foreman started to rush into the room, but John stepped in front of him.

"Wait, no, what the hell do you think you're doing? You're too--"

"I'm a neurologist with advanced training and your son's condition warrants that the nearest of my specialty on hand administers care, now if you'll excuse me..."

With that, Foreman brushed past him and fell in step beside the gurney now carrying an unconscious Gregory. Lisa broke away from the group in time to stop a distraught Blythe from following. Dr. Cameron was staring at the retreating group in what looked like shock. Within moments, she'd stomped up to Lisa and started yelling.

"He really was sick! He lied to us--and you and Dr. Wilson let him do it!"

With that Lisa glared at her with such ferocity that Dr. Cameron took a step back. "If you're done, Dr. Cameron, first of all, House did nothing of the sort. As your superior--and as Foreman just informed Dr. House's father--he certainly isn't under any obligation to alert you of his health--in fact, he did everything he could to keep the three of you on task and treating the actual patient. Instead, you ignored Patrick Obyedkov and instead broke into Dr. House's apartment to find out what he was hiding--"

"He's one to--"

"No one's disputing that, now stop interrupting. The point is that House didn't do anything to allude to any conclusions at all. We all believed what we wanted to believe. Recriminate later, now go do your job."

"We don't have a case and even if we did, it would have been referred to someone else by now. And no clinic duty because it's seven in the morning--the clinic's not open yet."

"Well, then, I guess we know where you'll be at eight, then, right?"

Dr. Cameron blanched and blinked, herself, before sighing, nodding, and turning to walk away. Not even a second went by before Lisa walked up to Blythe and hugged her. When she stepped back, John was surprised to see the remnants of tears on Lisa's face.

"I swear to you--" and here she looked at both of them. "If James and I could have done anything to prevent this, we would have..." and here she looked directly at him, a steely glint entering her eyes. "But I will tell you, Colonel, that bullying my staff or your son's staff won't fix any of this. Greg's facing a very debilitating condition with an almost entirely nonexistent recovery rate. He doesn't need a drill sergeant. He needs a father. Do him a favor _for once in his life_ and decide which one you want to be because we refuse to let you destroy whatever chances at peace he has left."

John stared at the blue-eyed woman before him, a faint thought coming to him that they were only a few shades darker than Gregory's. "He...he's dying?"

Lisa sighed, shaking her head faintly and blinking before gesturing vaguely. "If you two will kindly follow me to my office..."

_...I don't quite know how to say how I feel...These three words are said too much...Then not enough..._

Lisa closed the door behind herself and took a deep breath to steady herself before turning to face the older couple now seated on her couch. She'd tried to explain as much about Greg's condition and prognosis as she could, but there were just some things that long-distance phone calls didn't justify. Once she was again seated at her desk, she took another deep breath and forged ahead.

"Greg has a brain tumor--"

"You said that--" John House began, but Blythe cut him off, snapping at him for the first time that Lisa could ever recall.

"John, for God's sake, let her finish a sentence!"

His mouth snapped shut and he glanced at his wife, obviously as surprised by her uncharacteristic outburst as she was.

Lisa cleared her throat and continued as though she'd never stopped talking. "...called a Glioblastoma Multiforme. It's very agressive, very fast growing and with an almost certain chance of metastasis--that means that damaged and cancerous brain cells will pass through into Greg's blood stream and travel to other parts of his body, letting the cancer spread even faster. The fact that it's already shown marked growth means that Greg's..."

And for the first time she found herself faltering and stared down at her hands where they sat clasped on her desk. If they'd been flat, she knew they'd be shaking. The rest of her certainly was.

"Greg's life expectancy is at most, probably a few years. But no more than five. And...at worst..." And here she actually had to hold back her own sob as fresh tears began to flow from Blythe House's eyes. John House sat still, paler than she'd ever seen him. Certainly more quiet.

"At worst, he'll only live a few more months. I'm--I'm so sorry."

_...You just can't relax and you can't rely on anyone for anything..._

Lisa closed the door to her private bathroom and locked it before sliding to the floor and finally letting the horror and fear that had been building for the past...God, when hadn't she felt better than this? She couldn't remember. All she knew was that her soul was slashing its way out of her skin, sobs and silent screams finally clawing their way to the surface.

Greg was dying. She'd told his parents as much. She'd known this man for so long, had fought with him, bantered, spent countless nights poring over thick medical volumes and trying in vain to ignore the rubber bands he shot at her forehead. She still had the miniature menorah he'd given her for Chanukah on her mantle at home. She remembered when he'd come to her only...was it last week? She'd told him to call the Make-A-Wish foundation after he'd grabbed her ass for the umpteenth time. She remembered the way his lips had felt along the back of her neck and the ends of her ears as she sat in Princeton General, an undying ache in her womb as he lay his hands so gently on her as though trying to absorb her pain so that she could forget. That was what she chose to remember; not his words made in anger and pain. She wiped at her eyes with already wet hands and blinked, trying to make the sting dissipate.

He'd told her that she deserved something better than some stranger with no meaning, no connection to her. She frowned and lay a hand on her stomach, imagining the print of his hand as it had lain there.

Well, if she did, didn't he deserve better, too?

_I'll sing it one last time for you, then we really have to go...You've been the only thing that's right in all I've done...And I can barely look at you, but every single time I do...I know we'll make it anywhere..._

...TBC...


	4. Chapter 4

**Disintegration**  
_By Angelfirenze_

**Disclaimer:** Shore, Jacobs, Singer, et al., own parts. Marvel and DC Comics/DC Vertigo, Mutant Enemy, and various bands own the references and lyrics.

**Summary:** He reaches forward and snatches up one of the cases, sending the others cascading to the floor. He starts to pick them up, but Wilson stops him, telling him to just go to his son.

He heard it as an order to stop making excuses.

**Rating: R** for boundless amounts of angst.

**Notes:** The inspiration for the tent comes from the movie, _The Sixth Sense_. If you've seen that, which most of you have, I gather you can imagine what it looks like. The sand angels (or a tiny version of them, anyway) come from the book, America by E.R. Frank. Reviews are always encouraged and appreciated.

**Dedications:** Oh, and I'd actually like to dedicate this chapter to Mara Greengrass (userid 165795), who wrote two of the best House/Batman crossovers I've ever read and I definitely encourage everyone who's enjoyed this so far to read them if you haven't already. The original, Changes are the Only Constant, and its sequel, When Kept or Revealed are works of absolute brilliance.

_...If you look in the mirror and don't like what you see, you can find out firsthand what it's like to me..._

His eyes open again and the familiar clanks and bangs of a magnetic resonance imaging machine are like footprints he can step into to regain his bearings. He's in the hospital, still, but he doesn't know what he's doing here. He does know his back hurts and head hurts and that he'd like very much to go back to sleep.

"You awake there, buddy?" That was Wilson, on the other side of the machine. He wants to say something, but words won't come out, only strings of vowels and consonants with no attendant definition. But he knows he's tired. He hopes Wilson knows it, too.

"You had another seizure, House," Wilson says softly. "I've got Foreman and Chase checking you out. You're okay. You trained them, after all."

House sighed and found himself sinking back into sleep. He decided to go with it, letting the noise and mess fall away again.

John stood in the mirror of the bathroom closest to the Intensive Care Unit. He tried to take a deep breath, but couldn't seem to. Lisa Cuddy's words kept repeating themselves over and over in his head.

_...Do him a favor for_ once in his life _and choose..._

He felt a lump rising in his throat and swallowed hard against it. The reflexive action did nothing and he pitched forward, gripping the sink as he suddenly vomited.

Wiping the back of his mouth with a trembling hand, he reached for the paper towel dispenser next to the sink and yanked out a bunch. Dragging the coarse material over his mouth and hand, he remembered how Greg had moaned and cried, even half-asleep, at the feeling of the ice water he'd given his son earlier in the morning. He remembered years ago watching Greg sitting in the cold water filling their bathtub, his thin little body shivering and shivering while John stood watching. He would ask Greg if he was sorry for what he'd done yet and the boy would nearly shout in the affirmative, tears falling into the water, and John would say it was an insincere gesture of desperation and self-preservation.  


Would make Greg sit in that water until he was so cold he couldn't get out himself. He learned that the first time, when Greg had been five, and had started to slide into the water. John had yelled, cursing and grabbing Gregory before smacking him for not maintaining the upright position he'd been ordered to, but the boy had flopped over in his arm, heedless of the slap.

John had stared then before panicking and spiriting the boy to his bed, ignoring the discarded toys that had caused the problem in the first place, and thrust the tiny boy under the sheets and blankets of his little bed. Gregory hadn't moved at all for the next three hours. John had wanted to punish him again for wetting his bed while he lay there, but instead thrust a washcloth and new bath towel into the boy's unsteady hands and told him to go clean himself up. He'd changed the sheets, himself, not saying anything when his wife had later pointed out that they didn't match the comforter. Blythe, he recalled, had been in Alexandria, then, visiting one of her brothers. John had never said anything and Gregory hadn't either. John listened to Blythe tell Gregory later he was a good boy for changing his sheets all by himself, but that next time he should call Mommy and ask which ones went with what so they could match. It could be a game.

But he'd known better the next time. The boy had to stay in so long as he learned his lesson, but not so long that he couldn't function afterward.

He lifted Greg out of the water and wrapped him in a towel, something in him keeping him staring at the bluish tips of Gregory's fingers and toes. The violent shivers that his body had given over to. He said nothing as he sat the boy on his bed and dried Gregory's feet. He tried vainly to push Gregory's hair into something resembling order, but gave up after a few minutes. He pretended Gregory was watching television when he heard sniffles coming from the little tent Blythe had insisted on letting him build. She said he needed somewhere to use his imagination if it bothered John so much to have him playing his games 'over the news'. He seemed afraid to go to the park and she didn't mind, saying she worried about some stranger walking up and snatching her little boy. Gregory had slept in the tent more often than he slept in his bed. Once, during one of Gregory's backyard punishments, he'd stared at the tent, angry and violent for reasons he couldn't be bothered to figure out, and he'd walked over and kicked the whole thing down, snatching his golf clubs back and cursing the boy.

_...There is no you, there is only me...There is no fucking you, there is only me..._

"You hadn't touched those golf clubs since you were a teenager and you know it," Blythe countered heatedly when she'd found out. She had been in the hospital with an infection or something after they lost the second baby. Gregory had been nine. She'd come home to find he would cry at odd moments, jumping at the smallest sounds. She would, too, John knew and to this day he wonders how close they really are. She'd woken up earlier that night to take a dose of the antibiotics she'd been sent home with and had walked past Gregory's bedroom--he wouldn't let her close the door, insisted on sleeping with a flashlight in reach his beside table every night even though his father yelled that he was too old for such 'goddamned pussy baby bullshit'--to find the shambles of Greg's tent strewn about the floor. She'd gone to investigate, thinking Greg had simply kicked it over in his sleep to find the golf clubs missing and Greg asleep and shivering in the corner. Her shock wouldn't let her react for a moment, but once she'd gotten her wits back about her, she got down near him as fast as she could and had hugged him, crying into his hair as he slept. She'd woken him because she couldn't carry him without ripping her stitches and coaxed him toward the living room. She took the clubs back from where they'd found them in the hall closet and together they had rebuilt the tent.

Greg had sniffled, quietly telling her where the various effigies went (he had all sorts of little statues--a crucifix of Christ, a miniature Buddha, even Lord Ganesha and little angels that he hung from the ceiling with string and safety pins. The Star of David necklace and _mezuzah_ she'd bought him when they'd had a layover in Israel were positioned next to the makeshift doorway) and he had stared when they were finished, tears she didn't think he noticed sliding out of his eyes and he'd hugged her so fiercely she thought he was afraid she'd float away.

_...But underneath, we're not so tough...Oh, but love is not enough..._

After everything was back to the way it had been, he'd taken her father's camera that she'd given him and took pictures of the tent from every angle, inside and out. They had developed them in the bathtub the next morning while John was at work and he'd put them in a stack in his special shoebox where he kept his seashells and rocks and his marbles and the expanding flashcard collection she used to help him master each new language he picked up. She had told him all these things the next day, after sending Greg to the Reynolds' house for some time with their daughters. Greg seemed to like playing with girls better than boys. He had told her he could read his books and tell them things and they wouldn't call him a show-off or a know-it-all. They wouldn't laugh at him for being small and skinny.

"Why did you tear down his things? What on earth has he done to you and what the hell--" he'd stared at her then because even though she was still quiet, she _never_ swore. Certainly not at him. "Did you think you were doing? He's a boy, John. Not a Marine. And he is _certainly_ not a burden or whatever you've been entertaining! If he is, then you know where you can go."

When Gregory was thirteen, they'd transferred back to Japan. Gregory applied to a boarding school there with Blythe's help as he'd later found out, had been accepted, and they saw little of each other excepting holidays. Even then, Gregory wouldn't talk to him. Stock answers and vague inferences became the only responses he got from a (once, he remembers) effusive and imaginative young boy. It was only when he wasn't in the room that he saw anything of the Gregory he'd known before. The same distance--like a moat and drawbridge with crocodiles and all manner of dangerous beasts--between John and his son never seemed to matter with them and he wonders how they can manage such a thing. Even then, they'd had inside jokes and little games. She could say but two words of a sentence and elicit a rare smile before she even finished. Even now, she's the only person besides Lisa that he's ever let touch his piano.

They had no such same wavelength, John knew, and he blinked furiously to dispel the burning sensation he could feel behind his eyes. Desperate to distract himself, he turned the cold water tap on full and thrust his hands under the spray until they ached and burned. He brought his hands up again and let the water drip down his arms, the sensation like an itch spreading across his skin. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, the tears he'd fought trailing faintly down the sides of his now-runny nose.

_Pussy!_ his father, Christopher's voice hissed in his mind. _Stop fucking crying!_

He grit his teeth and thrust his hands back under the water, ignoring the shocks of pain shooting up his fingers and back into his wrists. _He doesn't need a drill sergeant. He needs a father._

John took a deep, ragged breath and reached for more paper towels. _...A father..._ He needed to find Wilson.

_...I've gone all this fucking way to end up back at the start..._

"You want to watch movies with Greg."

Wilson was standing next to a lighted board in his office, going over scans that he could see Gregory's name printed on in the corner. Wilson was looking at him now, a faintly confused expression on his face, but John could see the latent anger in those brown eyes. James has been cold to him for quite a while and he guesses that he's inferred a lot from Greg's mannerisms and reactions what sort of (non) relationship he's had with his son. He hates that James has every right to hate him, just as he knows Greg does, knows Lisa does, but has to put his shame aside for now if he wants to succeed in this plan.

But it's not a plan, really.

Gregory plans things, he knows, goes through great lengths for everything from a science fair project or a paper to a prank or (when he felt the very rare urge) cooking. Greg lived for his work, John knew, like his father had before him. The difference was that Greg did the work he wanted to do and not because it was expected of him. He wasn't in medicine for money or praise or a reputation (though from the little information he gleaned during his infrequent visits, John knew he garnered varied forms of all three). He didn't follow orders or protocol. John had no idea what he followed, really. His son has little faith in humanity, he knows, and that's largely his fault. The only people he seemed genuinely at ease with were those others had cast off or disregarded for various reasons. He'd arrived with Blythe once for a visit while Greg was working in Philadelphia and had watched discreetly as his son had treated a second-degree burn and a bad-looking break on a young boy's hand and arm. He'd maintained eye contact with the boy--something John had never been privy to, even when he wanted it--had asked what superheroes the boy liked (the kid had been wearing a Wolverine t-shirt, John had later seen as the boy's girlfriend walked him and his gauze and plaster-wrapped arm away from the clinic), had gone into detail about some issue or other where this Wolverine character and all these other mutants had staged some apparently epic battle. They'd chatted back and forth about it the entire time Greg was setting the kid's bones, even joking that something called 'admantium' would come in real handy right about then. He'd made a thrusting movement with his right hand and a 'SNIKT' noise and the kid had chuckled, nodding.

"Totally. Wolverine kicks all kind of ass. Peter Parker's got nothing on him."

"That kid from _Pleasantville_? Well, I can't say they picked the wrong guy to play him--now, Jean 

Claude Van Damme would have been a very bad choice. And I like Batman best, really--or actually, the new Batgirl is cool."

"Oh, come on, Babs was totally hot. And that red hair--almost as good as Scully!"

"Cass doesn't have to say a word. She could kill you without moving. Babs had to become Oracle before she could do that. And _that_ was with mind control. Mind control's never cool when you're on the receiving end. Plus, it totally kills the pleasure. Anyway, Scarecrow's got a lock on that. I'll assume you've seen at least one episode of _The New Batman Adventures_--the one that came on the WB?"

The kid nodded and Greg had continued. "The episode 'Never Fear' -- I mean, aside from that other one, 'Ultimate Thrill' and the obvious highlight and rather suggestive scene where Bats and Roxy Rocket gave new and important meaning to joining the Mile-High club on those damned rockets – but I digress..."

Greg got a wistful expression on his face and the kid laughed again. "Anyway, the part in 'Never Fear' where Bruce is in that fake-assed mustache -- and how the hell everyone in Gotham continually falls for _that_ thinly-disguised pile of crap -- "

The kid had laughed at that and Greg had cut him off by setting another bone, which morphed the laugh into a howl and a swearword. "You're a dick, you know."

Greg had nodded carelessly and continued, "The part where Scarecrow has those moron henchmen gas Idiotically Disguised!Bruce with the fear serum and he promptly dangles one of them out of the window with the grappling hook and then takes that Batarang and slices the cord thinner and thinner until the guy's practically out of his mind and confesses. And then Bruce just leaves him there and it's Tim's short ass that has to haul this guy who's twice his size back through the window. Say nothing of the crocodile pit or that scene on the train and how Robin had to trap Batman with one of his own gadgets to get him in one place long enough to stop Scarecrow. He told Batman that he was out of control--that he'd lost the ability to distinguish between what was right and necessary and his own whims. So he had to leave Bruce like that for his own protection and the health and sanity of everyone else. That's probably my favorite Tim Drake/Robin moment. That and this one episode where he had to go to Bruce's contrived wedding with one of Poison Ivy's little homunculi and he's standing there waiting for Alfred to pick him and Dick up and his face is stuffed with cake. Heh. Because who wouldn't stuff their face if they had the chance? Hell, I do."

The kid had gotten this awed expression on his face and Greg shrugged and asserted that he was partial to something called the 'DC universe', himself, along with a fair amount of a segment of it called 'DC Vertigo' comics.

"Like _Hellblazer_?" the kid had asked, smirking. Greg had grinned wickedly and quoted something that the boy had laughed loudly at and Greg had half-heartedly complained that if he didn't sit still, he was going to have to set the broken bones all over again, so shut up, would he?

Blythe had laughed softly, her eyes brighter than they'd been in a long time. It was like that when they saw Greg. A part of her would come alive that he'd otherwise never see.

_...I've been screaming for years, but it gets me nowhere..._

"Yeah, I would," John said now and Wilson stared at him a little longer before sighing and laying Greg's scans carefully on top of the disarray that currently littered his desk.

Then they walked around the corner and Wilson unlocked the door to reveal Greg's office and the mess within. There was something crumpled in the corner under the coat rack and Wilson let out an abrupt sigh before going to pick it up and brush it off.

It was Gregory's white lab coat, still new-looking, he wore it so rarely. There was something crammed into the pocket and Wilson pulled it out, blinking and biting his lip for some reason. It was a dark red silk tie with tiny patterned squares all over it, neatly folded inside the haphazardly discarded coat.

"H-how nice of him to hide it," Wilson said, his voice hitching slightly. He didn't elaborate, instead folding the tie back up and opening one of Gregory's file cabinet drawers and laying it gently on top of what were actually stacks of folded oxfords, t-shirts, jeans, and various sets of scrubs. John wondered then where Greg kept his patients' files.

Wilson turned back around then and John was surprised to find that the other man was crying. Wilson brushed past him, determinedly ignoring him as he threw open Greg's closet door and reached toward the back (past stacks of folders that he now guessed were the files he'd wondered about) with both hands. He extracted a stack of DVDs, most of the titles of which John had never heard of. Then another. And another stack beside that one. There were more, but Wilson stopped 

and turned back to him, folding his arms and watching him.

_American Beauty...Clerks...The Boondock Saints...Adaptation...Stranger Than Fiction...Constantine...The Butterfly Effect...Garden State...Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle...Pi...Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back...Running with Scissors...Dogma...Serenity...Full-Metal Jacket--_

Now that one John had definitely heard of. That and _American Beauty_ were probably the only ones and that was because Blythe had gotten him to watch it by sitting through _Rio Bravo_ for the 'four-billionth time'.

_Thumbsucker...The X-Files: Fight the Future...High Fidelity...The Cell..._ Three separate _Matrix_ movies..._Shaun of the Dead...Donnie Darko...Kinsey...Requiem for a Dream...Memento...Accepted...Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning...Dead Poets' Society..._ a remake of _Flight of the Phoenix...The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy...The Dangerous Lives of Altar Boys...Napoleon Dynamite...The Iron Giant...Empire Records..._ four different _Harry Potter_ movies in a boxed set...three _Saw_ movies...three John Hughes movies...

"We could live like _phat rats_ if we were the blunt connection in Shermer, Illinois," Wilson says absently and laughs to himself while picking up the _Dogma_. John stares at him for a bit, but Wilson doesn't pay him any attention, doesn't move at all, and he goes back to look at the selection before him.

He doesn't know which one to pick. He doesn't have the faintest idea which one Greg would like to see first. He realizes, not for the first time, that he knows nothing at all substantial about his son. Eye color, hair color, sure--obvious shit like that that he and every other idiot with a working set of eyes can figure out. Blythe and Lisa and James are the ones who know the important things. The smaller (more beautiful, he thinks now) things that he's never let himself be patient enough to notice. He' never been patient, period, and he'll be paying the price long after...

_Oh, God._

Wilson is watching him now. He seems to be used to waiting. In fact, there's a strange little smile on his face that he can't figure out. There's something funny happening right now? If so, he'd really like to be let in on the joke. But that would mean he's earned the right to know and he understands more than anything else about his son that he won't find out if Greg doesn't want him to. No amount of military training prepared him for the challenge of raising a child, let alone a genius whose acuity far outstripped his even in earliest childhood (he remembers hearing Greg clamber onto the piano stool and tap the notes of melodies like a regular child would read a primer...only Greg made it look easy. He was writing his own pieces by the time he was eight. Blythe told him that she hadn't done that until she was at least twice his age and then only at the behest of her piano teacher, who wanted to challenge her) and confounded him to this day.

He reaches forward and snatches up one of the cases, sending the others cascading to the floor. He starts to pick them up, but Wilson stops him, telling him to just go to his son.

He heard it as an order to stop making excuses. How often had he told Gregory that? Greg would tell him that he didn't make excuses. He thought of reasons. Reasons why he wouldn't eat the Lima beans or stuffed peppers his mother had slaved over half the day. Lima beans felt funny in his mouth and he didn't like the taste of them nor green peppers. He couldn't even eat whatever it was after the peppers had been removed, saying the taste was still there, permeating the stuffing. Blythe would make Greg his own stuffing without peppers and John would complain that she was making too much effort for an ungrateful little ass who didn't deserve to eat if he couldn't appreciate the meal given to him.

He'd sent Greg outside to sleep in the backyard the first time. Not five minutes later, Blythe had marched Gregory back into the house and told him to wash his hands. He could eat in his room that night as long as he promised to be careful and cleaned up if he made a mess at his desk. She had come back and told him calmly that if he ever made _her son_ sleep in the backyard again--she had a funny feeling he waited until she was visiting family members off-base or busy on long errands to carry out these 'punishments' (or abberations as she called them)--or take any more ice cold baths or stand in his underwear outside of the _goddamned Post Exchange_ for an hour after getting a 'B' on a history test--then he was going to wish he'd never come back from Vietnam and wished he'd never married her because it was obvious he already wished they'd never had Gregory. She'd grabbed his plate and glass then and emptied his unfinished dinner down the garbage disposal.

She didn't talk to him for three days after that and when she did, it wasn't to apologize.

Greg opened his eyes and immediately closed them again, the bright light of the partially opened blinds sending shards of pain radiating into them. There was a sharp intake of breath and then the light dimmed and he could look again. He sighed in relief, expecting to see Mom but thoroughly surprised to see Dad instead. He lay for a while, a strange blankness filtering through his already faulty thought process as he tried to think of why this man would do anything to comfort him instead of telling him to tough it out like everything else.

Then he saw his three-dimensional snake puzzle lying on his bed and before he'd thought about it, he was reaching for it. It was solved already and he closed his eyes and let his fingers slide the raised sections of snake in various directions before opening his eyes to find it satisfactorily jumbled. He felt his arms getting tired, one of them was starting to tingle from being in their ninety-degree angle, but he ignored that and shifted the pieces, trying to put the puzzle together. After taking two breaks to rest his increasingly heavy arms, he found himself angry again. He should have solved this stupid, easy puzzle by now. He's solved it in two fucking minutes so what the hell is the problem now? Before he realizes what he's doing, he flings the puzzle away and it lands on the floor with a clatter. Dad is staring at him now and he closes his eyes and hates the tears he feels building again. He feels his body hitching and grabs at the sheets and blanket covering him before scrubbing his face with them, trying to smash the tears into the fabric. He hears a sigh over him before hands pull the blanket away from his face. His father is watching him now, a...sad expression on his face. The snake puzzle is in his hands and Dad lays it back on the bed, where he can get it. He picks it up again and starts shifting the pieces around again, wondering why he's bothering.

"D'ya know what Lisa said to me?" Dad asks quietly, his eyes trained on the blanket in his hands. Greg feels himself shiver and Dad frowns and lays the blanket back down on top of him, tucking the sides around him. He blinks, confused, and Dad sighs again.

"She said I needed to figure out if I wanted to be a drill sergeant or a father to you because she and Wilson and your momma aren't going to let me ruin however long you have..."

Dad takes a breath and Greg is astonished to see tears in his eyes. "They aren't going to let me fuck up the end of your life like I fucked up the beginning and--and the middle."

Dad bites his lip and sighs. "I'm...I'm sorry. I know I've never let those words mean very much for you. I know I've never let _anything_ mean very much for you. I wasn't anything like I should have been to you. I wasn't the father you needed and I was unfair to you and taught you that trust and promises and hopes and dreams and wonder and curiosity and your own choices don't mean shit and I...God, Greg...I'm so sorry. You were just a kid. I...you were right. I couldn't g-get back at my...at my father and my...brother. So I took it out on you. But you're _not Jesus Christ_ and I shouldn't have made you their scape goat. You didn't have anything to be sorry...for...ever."

For...ever. Forever. Greg thinks then about the first time his mother read him the definition of 'forever' out of the dictionary. He'd been four.

**ADVERB:**

**1. For everlasting time; eternally: **_**No one can live forever.**_**  
2. At all times; incessantly: **_**was forever complaining about the job.**_

**NOUN:**

**A seemingly very long time: **_**It has taken forever to resolve these problems.**_

His father was speaking again. "The Koreans killed my brother five years before you were born. I was sixteen. My...father...well, the Japanese killed him in Pearl Harbor, when I was six. I still don't know how to feel about that. Maybe I'm jealous...that they took away my chance to get revenge. Maybe I'm thankful because they saved me. I just...I don't know. But none of that matters, really. Not when I've done to you a lot of the things they did to me. I'm no better than them. No fuckin' better at all."

He's starting to stare because his father is crying. He's sitting in the chair next to his bed and he starts to fall forward and Greg can see now that the door is closed, which is good, but then his father halts and tries to pull himself back upright. Greg lays the hand with his IV leads on top of the back of Dad's head and Dad's forehead drops forward to touch the blanket and he shudders and cries silently and Greg can see a wet spot of tears spreading forth and his mind is still a strange blank slate.

Dad lurches back then and Greg blinks and his hand falls to the bed because he didn't expect it and Dad takes a deep breath and leans forward to press the heels of his hands into his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he says again and sits back to rub his reddened eyes again. Greg blinks again and looks at the blurry cabinet that holds the syringes and extra blankets and gowns.

There's the equally blurry form of a DVD case on top of it. Dad follows his line of sight and then says, "Oh, hey, you need your glasses, don't ya?"

His voice is still clogged with mucus, but Greg doesn't say anything or move as Dad gets his glasses from the table next to his bed and places them on his face like Mom had done.

Everything's clear now and his eyes don't hurt so much. Dad gets to his feet and goes to the cabinet, picking up the DVD and showing it to him. It's one of his.

_Serenity_.

"Wilson got this from your office for me. He had me pick one. It..." he frowns again, swiping a hand back across his eyes. "It shouldn't have taken twenty damned minutes, but I picked one. You've got a hell of a lot of movies. And even more at your apartment. Anyway...I...I thought maybe you wanted to watch one. You can think about that for a while instead of all this. Stop working for once and take a little vacation."

He waves a vague hand around the room. "Blythe said that Lisa told her that you doctors hate bein' patients because you know everything that could happen. She said we're the lucky ones because we have the luxury of ignorance. I...I never thought about it like that. Apparently, bein' a doctor's a lot like bein' a soldier. You don't stop just because the war--or case...is over. Not even for yourself."

Dad is looking at his leg now and sniffing some more. Then he sighs and they both look at the puzzle. Dad laughs a bit. It's solved. The snake is coiled and still.

"Ready to watch this now?"

Greg blinks and nods his head as best as he can. He's not tired...exactly...it's just hard to move a lot. He gets out of breath and his back and neck and head and arms and hands and legs all start hurting. Everything hurts. Dad picks up the remote for the bed and presses the up button. The head of the bed rises so that he can see the television and DVD/VCR that Cuddy sprung for all the private and heart patients to have. When there's enough donations she wants to put them in all the rooms, but there aren't enough yet. He wonders why she gave him one when he's such a pain in the ass.

He watches as Dad puts the movie in and gives him the remote. He starts the movie and they watch in silence until his favorite part comes. Simon is patching River up after her freaked out rampage through the club on Beaumonde.

_"They're afraid of me."  
"I'm sorry."  
"They should be. But I'll show them. Oh, God."_

Simon shushes her, but she continues, crying and staring past him. Greg knows she's psychotic. He even knows how that feels. Desperation (and ketamine) can make you a little bit crazy, he's learned. He doesn't realize that he's saying her lines along with her. That he's crying, too.

_"It's okay. Hey, it's okay."  
"Show me off like a dog. Old men covered in blood. It never touched them, but they're drowning in it. I don't know what I'm saying--I never know what I'm saying."  
"In the Maidenhead, you said something. When you were triggered, do you remember?"_

Flashes of dead, dessicated bodies that remind Greg of Zeppo after he sliced him open with the microsurgery robot in his head (all in his mind, but the blood felt so real. Just like the bullets that ripped him open.) and he shivers again. He doesn't realize Dad is watching him.

_"The captain saw you say something on the feed."  
"Miranda."  
"Miranda."  
"Ask her."  
"Who is Miranda?"_ But River looks down, staring at something in her own head, and doesn't say anything.  
_"Am--"_ Simon hesitates, then continues in the same soft voice. _"Am I talking to Miranda now?"_  


And River (and Greg, too) gives him a look that says he should know better.

_"No. Not right. But I um...I think when they triggered you...it somehow brought this up. This memory."_

And River (and Greg, who's staring at the screen and his father can see the same sort of horror in his eyes even if he doesn't know where it comes from) looks at Simon and says, _"It isn't mine."_

She starts crying earnestly and Greg sees Zeppo's body being sliced open with the robotic arm and scalpel, feels the blood spray and hit him (even though it didn't happen that way at first--the scene changes a little every time. Everything gets worse every time) and he's crying now, too, but can't tell.

_"The memory, it isn't mine. And I shouldn't have to carry it, it isn't mine. Don't make me sleep again."_

The pleading is in his voice, too, and his father is staring at him and biting his lip to keep from crying again because he knows that the memories his son refers to are his, not River's. Greg's burden is an overabundance of imagination and he's read enough books and suffered enough to know and imagine what his father has done, what was done to him, and it makes him cry and most times no one sees it and he thinks that no one can see it now. He can't even see it so how can anyone else?

Simon promises that he won't make River sleep, but she cries again and says, _"Put a bullet to me,"_ and Greg says it, too, softly, but loud enough for Dad to hear. He laughs like River laughs, and it hurts to hear and they both say, _"Bullet in the brain pan, squish,"_ and Dad (who looks at him, scared) and Simon both say, _"Don't say that."_

And Simon continues, _"Not ever. We'll get through this."_ And Dad has his arms around Greg now and is breathing deep and heavy and Greg can hear his heart beating fast and is so tired but he doesn't want to sleep, like River doesn't, because Moriarty comes back and shoots him again and every time someone else is in the room or he's all alone and every time he dies.

He's going to die anyway. He doesn't know why anyone did anything then. He certainly doesn't know why anyone does anything now.

_"Things are going to get much, much worse,"_ River says, and Greg nods because it's true. John backs away from him and calls a nurse.

_...Sleep...Just sleep..The hardest part is letting go of your dreams..._

...TBC...


	5. Chapter 5

**Disintegration**  
_By Angelfirenze_

**Disclaimer:** Shore, Jacobs, Singer, et al., own everything. The lyrics belong to various bands. Plus, I started rewatching _Running with Scissors_ last night. There's nothing like putting the 'fun' in dysfunction, I tell you.

**Summary:** "But my dad's constipated!" House declared, grinning as his mother tried without success to stifle another laugh. "You can't just leave him like that! Especially when it's a creative constipation! That's dereliction of duty! A violation of your Oath! Creative constipation!"

**Rating: R** for bounds of angst that have yet to fully materialize...

**Notes:** There will be mentions of an origin of House that I first described in Wonder. I still like that history. It's elaborated on, a little bit here. Reviews are always encouraged and appreciated.

**Dedications:** To everyone at Virginia Tech, may they and the nation find some peace again.

_...Is it easy now?...To watch the things you gave your life to broken..._

Foreman watched House swallow the small pill before sighing and gesturing pointedly at the cup of milk he'd provided. "House, you know you have to take carbamazepine with food or milk. Since you can't keep food down, milk would be the next best choice."

House stared blankly at his fellow, wanting to give him a filthy look but unable to muster up the effort. Instead, he gestured at the IV siphoning electrolytes into his body and frowned. "You could just inject it. Save us both the trouble. I could sleep through it. I would."

Foreman frowned more deeply at what he knew House wasn't saying. "I'm going to ask you to take this pill regularly. I'm going to make sure you know what you're taking and why."

_House, please?_ An unspoken plea in Foreman's eyes pulled out a little shovel and started digging a trench in his heart. Damn them all and their insistence on suddenly deciding his input was important.

"Tell my parents what the dosage is, how it works," House said evasively, gesturing at both Mom and Dad, who were watching in what he knew was confusion no matter how skilled they were--particularly Dad--at hiding it.

Foreman took a breath, ready to do whatever it took to get House to adhere to this new regimen. "Tegretol is an anti-seizure medication, formulated more specifically for the type of seizures your son has been having--secondary epilepsy, which means it's caused by something as opposed to being idiopathic--"

"No, 'idiopathic' does not mean 'they don't know what causes it'," House cut in at the look on his father's face which, he guessed, meant he was going to object to something. He was particularly familiar with that look. "There are two types of epilepsy..."

He trailed off and looked at Foreman again, who nodded once more and took up the slack. "Primary epilepsy is a condition that generally manifests itself in early childhood and lasts throughout the patient's life. Secondary epilepsy is caused by brain trauma of many sorts, one of which can be cancer. The alteration of the brain cells that control motor function affects how they, in turn, function--their ability or susceptibility to what are basically electrical storms in the central nervous system. It's similar to Tourette's syndrome or complex tics in that the patient has no control over the movement of their limbs and, in the case of the absence seizures your son has also manifested, the loss of awareness and/or consciousness. The dosage we're starting him on is about one-hundred milligrams, twice a day, for three days, progressing upwards to two hundred in the morning and three hundred before he goes to sleep. It's important the that PM dosage be higher because in many cases, including your son's, falling sleep or waking up can prove to be a trigger for a seizure."

"Triggers," Dad asked, glancing at Greg, whose right hand had just twitched. "Like what? Can they be stopped?"

"Well, triggers can be anything from illness and fever to foods in some cases, sleep--like I said--or they can be arbitrary, that is just a random occurrence. Seizures can't be stopped once they start, nor can epilepsy necessarily be cured. It can be controlled through medication or, in extreme cases..."

House frowned and rolled his eyes. "Don't wuss out and start sentences you don't plan on finishing. Two of the treatments for uncontrolled epilepsy include partial lobectomies--removal of at least a fraction or up to one half of the brain, particularly in the case of brain death. Another is called a ketogenic diet, being one comprised almost entirely of fats and carbohydrates with little else. The idea is to create fat deposits in the brain, which help to alter the brain waves into a more manageable pattern by slowing them down."

"Brain death?" Mom asked, gripping Dad's hand and House sighed.

"A seizure or spate of seizures that lasts for thirty minutes or more is called _status epilepticus_, and can be fatal since it causes brain damage and requires immediate intervention. Since I'm here, every time I've had a seizure, I've been given large doses of Ativan, which stops seizures instantly when given intravenously. The Tegretol should stop the seizures from occurring in the first place, at least in the interim."

"And you _have_ to take it with food or milk," Mom didn't ask, giving him a pointed look. "What happens when you don't?"

"Gastroenteritis--upset stomach and terrible gas. M'kay?"

Dad snorted and laughed, "Oh, goody."

"No one said you had to set up camp here," House was offended now. "I sat through your noxious gases for eighteen years--now, you're too good to suffer through mine? That's it, I'm not renewing your Metamucil prescription--"

"Greg, stop!" Mom gasped, giggling at the scowl that had fallen onto Dad's face.

"Metamucil doesn't require a prescription, Mom, relax. It's probably some other sucky problem down below--either way--maybe..."

"Either way," Foreman cut in, barely hiding his grin. "Your son's seizures should stop within the next twenty-four hours."

"But my dad's constipated!" House declared, grinning as his mother tried without success to stifle another laugh. "You can't just leave him like that! Especially when it's a creative constipation! That's derilection of duty! A violation of your Oath! Creative constipation!"

"You need to stop watching movies," Foreman told him, rolling his eyes and walking out.

"Thank you," Dad scowled, watching as Mom giggled helplessly and clung to the end of House's bed to keep from falling over. "Thank you very, very much."

"Ah, don't worry--that pesky pride and shame'll be gone in no time. And then you, too, will be able to easily mention your parents' bodily functions--not to mention a few of your own."

Dad stared at him, then, before getting up and backing away and sniffing experimentally. "What the hell did you just do?"

"I'm in a hospital. If I can't perform bodily functions here, then where can I?"

He's never seen his father leave so fast. Or his mother laugh quite so hard. It makes him smile.

"He's a gullible one, really. I thought the Marines didn't tolerate that sort of nonsense."

"Leave your father alone, I told you," Mom laughed, chucking him on the arm.

House smiled and lay back. "I'll be okay, Mom," he said quietly and her face fell a bit. He reached up with a shaky hand and wiped the tear that slid down one side of her face.

"I know," she told him, stroking his hair. "I love you."

"I love you, too," he whispered, yawning and sinking back into the pillows again. "Anticonvulsants make you sleepy."

"So sleep. I'll be here."

"Never knew Dad was so afraid of a fart. Even an imaginary one."

Mom giggled again, kissing his forehead. "Go to sleep, Greg."

So he did.

_...Well, the dashboard melted but we still have the radio..._

John came back after he felt it was safe to reenter Greg's room (he wasn't taking any chances, damn it) to find Greg asleep and Blythe sniffling as she removed a wrapped package from the shopping bag she'd brought back with her this morning.

"He never did anything, you know," she said softly. "We never knew you were so jumpy about something so--"

John frowned again and watched her smile spread. "I'm so glad you're amused by the idea of--"

"Ahem, I changed his diapers. I'm allowed to laugh."

"He threw up on me, too, you know," John said softly, remembering how Greg had been so sick when he was born so early. "All over my dress uniform."

"You had it cleaned," Blythe reminded him, lying a hand on Greg's stomach. It gurgled under her hand even now and she wondered if it had ever stopped. "He's never grown out of it, though. He told me it's called an acronym now. G.E.R.D. Gastroesophageal Reflux Disease. He said that Lisa has him on something so that he didn't have heartburn all the time. But I guess he's gotten used to it."

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair, the same shard of self-hatred cutting into his heart yet again. "He's had to get used to too damned many things. He's not."

He took a deep breath. "He shouldn't have to. I'm..." he looked at her, his hand coming to his mouth. "I'm so sorry."

Blythe nodded bit her lip, silently taking hold of the chair John had occupied a few minutes before and moving it around to face Greg's bed. "I know."

_...Nobody told you where to hide...Told you where to run away..._

...TBC...


	6. Chapter 6

**Disintegration**  
_By Angelfirenze_

**Disclaimer:** Shore, Jacobs, Singer, et al., own everything. The lyrics belong to various bands. Partial quote from my favorite scene of one of my favorite canceled shows of all time, _The Days_.

**Summary:** His father called him 'Little Albatross' early in the morning.

**Rating: R** for bounds of angst that have yet to fully materialize...

**Notes:** At this particular point in time, I embarked on a House/Firefly sort of bent. It's been a lot of fun so far. Especially when House and River are in the same room together. Unending awesomeness. I totally recommend '_**Danse du petit cygne'**_ by **musesfool** over at Livejournal. Sheer brilliance in such a small package. Also, **tiggpwns** should have recognized at least one of House's comments in this chapter...oh, right, and I AM NOT a Foreman/Chase slasher. If anyone wants to read subtext into anything, it has nothing to do with me.

**Dedications:** To United States Attorney General Alberto Gonzales, who FINALLY BLOODY RESIGNED, MUCH TO THE RELIEF OF ALL...

Reviews are always encouraged and appreciated.

_...No one will ever see things the way I do...No one will try...All my friends think that I'm gone...But I swear, I swear I'm not...I swear I'm not..._

His father called him 'Little Albatross' early in the morning. He was barely awake after they'd finally finished watching _Serenity_. Dad had chuckled about Mal and River flying the ship together and remembered playing pilot with Greg when he'd been small. He had smiled and run his hand through Greg's hair. He'd been so tired, it hadn't even felt strange. If it did, he didn't notice. He heard his father saying, "Sleep tight, Little Albatross," and remembered Mal saying that the albatross was good luck on a ship.

_The way I remember it, the albatross was a ship's good luck, 'til some idiot killed it--yes, I have read a poem. Try not to faint._

Dad had laughed softly as Greg recalled it and everything was quiet and his migraines had finally abated. It was a short reprieve, he knew, but he didn't mind. A reprieve of any kind was a gift and he lay there and enjoyed it.

"You read poems," he said and his father nodded, blushing faintly.

"Yeah. I did. Not since you were small. You asked me to read them to you." Dad sighed, then. "You liked reading better than the toy soldiers I got you. You wouldn't play with them the way most boys would. You'd act out your books. The ones your momma used to read to you. I didn't think you'd like that, but you did."

Greg remembers being small and Mommy reading him his 'big people books' and imagining the places and the people and how the words sounded and what they meant. He remembers getting his languages mixed up after they'd come back to the States. He'd wanted to go home, but Daddy had said that Virginia was their home, and Ohio, and everywhere in the States. He'd asked why Japan wasn't anymore, why he had to change the way he talked. Why the kids at his new school made fun of him for saying 's' sounds instead of 'th' and 'b' instead of 'v.' Daddy had frowned and said for Greg to get over it and start acting like the American he was because no one here was going to speak Japanese just because he wanted them to, and that there was nothing wrong with English and he'd speak English and do what he was told.

He had frowned because he was sad and Daddy took hold of his shoulders and swung him up in the air. He'd laughed then, speaking a mix of Japanese and English, and Daddy had lowered him to look him in the eye.

"No Japanese, I said. And none of that crying mess, now, Gregory," Daddy had said, turning back to the new school steps and placing him on the ground. "You're too big for that. Now go on in and do your schoolwork. Your momma will be here to pick you up after school."

He'd breathed deeply and tried not to frown anymore because Daddy hadn't liked it. He went in his new school and didn't talk to the other kids. He'd sat in a corner of the playground at lunch and recess and ate his peanut butter and jelly sandwich that Mommy had packed, wishing it was sushi or noodles and that he had chopsticks. Mrs. Brown, his teacher, asked him questions about Japan and told him to tell the other kids what it was like, but his words sounded wrong and they had laughed. Mrs. Brown had told them to stop but they still looked at him with their mocking eyes and he'd resolved not to speak again.

_...Put my tail between these legs of mine...Like I do all the time..._

Daddy hadn't come home that night and Mommy had made him noodles and let him eat with chopsticks. It had made up for lunch, but when she'd asked if he'd made any friends, he'd wanted to tell her yes. But he couldn't because that was a lie and lies scared him even more than not knowing what he was doing or what was going to happen and, anyway, Mommy didn't lie to him and trusted him, she said, to tell her the truth and to know that he always could. She always said she wouldn't be mad that he made a mistake and she never was.

So he'd told her no and she'd hugged him and read to him from Faulkner, who was her favorite author (but his was Steinbeck at the time--now it was Adams and his favorite number was forty-two), and he'd had his bath and gone to sleep in his tent. He had rinsed his chopsticks after dinner and clutched them as he fell asleep, wishing he didn't have to go back to school, but knowing it wasn't any use.

But that was so long ago now and the chasm between Greg and Dad was huge now and he didn't know if he could cross it. He didn't know if he even wanted to. But Dad's hand was on his head now and it was nice and he thought that maybe it wouldn't be terrible if he only tried. It would only be for a little while, anyway, because time was short and there wasn't anything else that could be changed about that.

_...You're the one in charge and that the captain's gotta sink with the ship..._

He wonders if the fact that the thought brings him comfort should be cause for alarm, but he's too exhausted to care. He knows he's sick of being...well...sick and tired. Who'd said that? Fannie Lou Hamer, he recalls. His mother had watched the news about the Voting Rights Act and told him that everyone was the same inside and out and little differences like colors of skin don't mean anything and that treating people well wasn't supposed to be about something so stupid as that.

He still believes that. Actions piss him off. Carelessness. Stupidity. Assumptions. He hates most of all that he's been guilty of all these things at one time or another and wishes that he could say differently. But he can't change any of that. All he can do is not let those things influence his future decisions. It's been his _raison d'etre_ and that satisfies him more than money or supposed fame (or infamy) ever could.

He can sleep at night, after all, so long as the pain's not too terrible. The physical has always been far more of a problem than the emotional. Emotions he can analyze and disseminate and reason away. Emotions he can detach. Pain isn't as easy to ignore and that's why he hates it as much as he does.

"You're not most boys," John had whispered after Greg had drifted off to sleep again. "I wish it hadn't taken me so long to see that. I wish I'd accepted it. I love you." He stood and leaned over the sleeping figure before him and kissed Greg on his forehead. Greg snuffled a bit in his sleep, but didn't wake. He'd walked out to get a cup of coffee and thought he'd check in to see how Blythe was sleeping in the ICU guest room Lisa had afforded them. But he didn't find her there. He'd felt his brow furrow and had wandered down toward where he knew Lisa's office was. He let out a breath. He could hear Blythe lecturing Lisa and Wilson on getting sleep like she always lectured him and Greg. He smiled and watched, trying not to laugh aloud.

"If you two think you're going to run yourselves into the ground, you've got another thing coming," Blythe told Lisa matter of factly and the Dean of Medicine glanced at her equally chagrined Chief of Oncology, now understanding exactly why Greg didn't lie to his mother. It was impossible. "I can't believe you three. You'll take endless care of each other, but let yourselves get so terribly tired. James, you can barely stand."

John chuckles a bit and Blythe turns around and he's caught, but he doesn't mind. Both his son's friends are sitting there in scrubs, the pair of them (and Greg, too) not looking a day over six years old. Wilson is trying to get up from Lisa's couch, but his legs keep giving way and he can't find purchase anyway in the oversized green scrubs he's wearing. John thinks they might belong to Gregory, who is a bit taller. Lisa is wearing pink and hunched over her desk, watching helplessly as Blythe strides forward to gather up and straighten the paperwork she seemed to be doing before setting it gently into a drawer.

"This can all wait until tomorrow. Dean of Medicine, Chief of Oncology, Head of Diagnostics--I don't care. Go to sleep, all of you." Then Blythe looks at him and he gives her a smirk.

"In case you're plannin' on marchin' up there to tell Greg to hit the sack, he beat these two by a mile." He watched, amused, as Blythe sighed gave both Lisa and Wilson final reproving glances. "I'm sure they'll sleep. We need to now."

With that, John watched as both Lisa and Wilson struggled to their feet and clambered off to a side room marked **On-Call Lounge**, presumably to sleep before gently laying a hand on Blythe's shoulder and guiding her to bed, himself.

Once they were settled, Blythe leaned over and kissed John's forehead. He looked at her, confused sadness on his face. "Wh--"

"John," Blythe says softly, wrapping an arm around his waist. "It won't do anyone--least of all Greg--for you to continually blame yourself, hate yourself. He's trying to get past it. You need to, as well. He'll need us both and you can't let yourself dwell on the mistakes you've made. You have to stop thinking that he'd want nothing to do with you--that you don't deserve to be forgiven."

He stared at her then, and she continued, "Did your father or your brother ever apologize to you?"

John looked away, an unexpected swoop of sick repulsion and anger falling over him. Blythe squeezed his arm and leaned over to kiss his shoulder. "You're better than they ever were. Because you know you were wrong and you accept that. You're trying to make it better. They never would have bothered. They didn't think you mattered. That alone says you're different from them because I _know_ how much Greg matters to you. And you're trying to let him know. They've stolen so much from you. Let Greg know you don't want to do the same."

John squeezed his eyes shut, shudders trying to break through again, and Blythe lifted them both into a sitting position and pressing his face into the crook of her neck, hugging him and rubbing his back. He could feel his eyes burning again, feel warm wetness spreading on Blythe's shoulder under his face and felt the shame coming back in full-force. He tried to pull away, but Blythe wouldn't let him go.

"John, stop..._fighting_. You don't need to fight anymore. I promise."

And he sinks forward, Blythe's arms coming to wrap more tightly around him. He _is_ tired. He's sick of pretending the past...hell, _his whole stupid fucking life_...never happened. He's sick of pretending that nothing hurts. That things were just the way they were and that it didn't mean anything. He's sick of _sucking it up_.

So he won't anymore.

_...I hate myself...For loving you like this...And I hate myself for hating myself...Just enough to love you..._

Chase and Foreman sat in the Diagnostics conference room very late or very early that morning--they'd given up truly deciding what time of day it was long ago--staring at House's results from the MRI and lumbar puncture. Wilson had handed off copies of House's previous CAT scans, as well, and Foreman now sat staring at them. _Glioblastoma Multiforme_, there, as big as a damned golf ball and practically mocking from the black and white image before him.

"He told us...there was nothing wrong--"

"No, he didn't," Chase corrected him, his light eyes darkened with sadness and anger, though at whom Foreman couldn't say. He frowned and stood, beginning to pace back and forth along the metal table. Chase watched him, a tired and strange sort of calm arranged over his features that Foreman found infuriating. It was just like when House had been shot.

Chase had been calm, quiet in his anger. Foreman had felt like hitting everything in sight. Going out and finding the son of a bitch and giving back a little of the rage he'd felt. He hated it, wondering how the hell he'd come to care about such an irritating rat bastard. He wondered how Chase could distance himself from this whole situation in the way that he had. It was reminding him way too much of House right now and he hated him for it.

"How the hell do you two do that?" he snapped, gesturing in a sharp yet vague fashion, and turning to face his colleague.

"Do what?" Chase asked, letting the results of the LP fall gently to the table in front of him and watching Foreman with those light eyes that weren't the same color as House's for all the good it did.

"Pretend like shit doesn't affect you? Like...like it's just going to go away if you ignore it long enough?" He stopped and flopped into one of the chairs before leaning forward. "Your dad _died_ and House didn't tell you--you don't hate him for that?"

"It wasn't his business to tell," Chase said, a faint frown coming to his face. "If I'm going to be pissed off at anyone, it'd be my father who didn't even have the balls to tell me he was sick. Who looked me in the eye and let me believe that I'd see him again one day, knowing full well that he'd be dead in three months. Who...God, House actually gives a damn about me, about my performance!"

Now Chase stood, himself, leaning on the table before him with splayed hands, watching as his fingers left prints in the glass. "He doesn't give a damn how my screw-ups make him look! It's not about him! He wants us to _learn_ something! With my father, it was always about how the medical community saw him--this arsehole who left my mother to drink herself to death and for me to watch helplessly as it happened. Without so much as a 'by your leave,' he was just...gone! And then I get this surprise visit and he tries to act like nothing had happened!" Then Chase paused and as cynical a look as Foreman had ever seen crossed his face. "Well, he was right--nothing _had_ happened between us for fifteen fucking years. I was a nonentity to both of them. Their fucking careers and their fights with each other were more important to them than I ever was! House..."

Chase sighed and turned to look at the office next to them, through the glass walls. House's tennis ball sat on its dish, idling in the dark. He wished House where there bouncing it against the wall--even against his head like he'd done that one time.

"House doesn't see me as just another reflection on how good a job he does. And he doesn't just see your race, either, you dumbass. He mocked you about that because you let it rankle you. He loves getting reactions out of people. He hates being seen as just a cripple, just a brain with legs. He's human just like every-damned-body else. Just like you hate being seen as just 'the black guy'. Anyway, none of that matters. What matters is that he didn't trust anyone enough to tell them that he's sick. Doesn't that mean something to you?"

"Of course it does! Hell, he didn't even tell Wilson or Cuddy." Foreman paused and thought about that. The disconnect between his three superiors had never seemed as apparent as it was now. After House had been shot, after his leg pain returned...Tritter...the whole last year he'd seen them drifting apart and had never noticed the toll it had taken on their boss. "And we didn't see it."

"He didn't want us to," Chase countered, his right eyebrow raised. "He can tell all these dark things about people just by looking at them, but he can't tell the damned difference between sympathy and pity. Hell, I know his dad--I met them six years ago. I'm betting that to him there never was a difference and he taught his son as much. That no one gives a damn about you and if they do, it's just because they look down on you. That you're weak for needing people. So he tells himself he doesn't and people let him because it's too much of a hassle not to."

"We just assumed--like we always do--that he was just trying to get high. Or something," Foreman reached for the CAT scan again and held it up to the light. "He's _dying_...God, remember when Cuddy made him do that lecture and we all snuck down to watch? All those freshies down there, hearing these three 'anonymous' stories about leg pain and all the while there's a _doctor_ with a _cane_ and severely compromised use of his fucking _right leg_...and none of them saw it. I bet you they didn't even figure it out after Cuddy came up and told him that the class ended ten minutes before."

Chase laughed, despite himself. He remembered the three 'precursors' to himself, Foreman, and Cameron--as he liked to think of them--each formulating theories about the cases they'd taken on and how House had diagnosed Dr. Riley with lead poisoning from a damned painted coffee cup. He doesn't think anyone else would have thought to drink out of a hand-painted mug that belonged to someone else. He didn't think that someone else would lick a homeless woman's vomit, either. Or shamelessly stage a prank war in the middle of the hospital during a case or accept questionable gifts from mobsters or refuse one hundred million dollars for the sake of the very patients that money might have helped or...God, what _hadn't_ House done?

"I think I miss him already," Chase said sadly, thanking God that at least House didn't have any infections to go along with the tumor. His body had been through enough, already. When was...was it God who had to figure that out? Or had God finally decided He wanted one of His sons to come home? That it was time for his suffering to be over? That he could, at long last, truly rest and be at peace?

Chase fervently decided to believe the latter.

"Yeah. Damn it. You know what I hated about the two of you? And Wilson?"

Chase started chuckling then, knowing what Foreman meant. "Well, you accuse us of all listening to the same radio stations and learning the same songs just to piss you off. Because you're that important, you know, in the grand scheme of things."

"Shut up. If I have to hear the same three off-key _warbling freaks_ mangling the words to songs I don't even want to know one more _damned_ time--"

Chase laughed then and stood before marching resolutely into House's office. He heard Foreman jump to get up behind him and laughed as he felt himself being tackled to the ground. He threw Foreman off and scrambled to his feet, managing to get to House's stereo and turning on the CD player. He didn't even know what House had been playing and he didn't care. Just so long as Foreman heard it.

"You bastard," Foreman howled, both of them dissolving into laughter. Some damned song was playing. Chase started to sing as loudly as he could, laughing more as Foreman struggled to cover his mouth.

_"Oh, you know I did it--it's over and I feel fine--Nothing you can say is going to change my mind--"_

"Shut the fuck up!"

Chase reached out and turned 'DOA' by the Foo Fighters up a bit, singing more loudly and drowning out Foreman's protests. Then he laughed and turned the song on repeat.

_...I went down, I fell--I fell so fast...Dropping like the grains in an hourglass...Never say forever, 'cause nothing lasts...Dancin' with the bones of my buried past..._

"This is the absolute worst song to play in a hospital. That's all I'm saying," Foreman protested feebly, too overcome with laughter to do much else as they leaned against House's desk and listened to the stupid song. Damn, he hated Chase. House and Wilson, too. Assholes, all of them.

"Hey, did you know that House has the Leonardo DiCaprio/Claire Danes version of _Romeo and Juliet_ on DVD? The musical version?" Chase could see it through the slightly open door of his closet, sitting in one of the stacks on the shelves.

"He's insane."

"I bet he thinks of you as Mercutio, complete with requisite costume party drag--"

"Fuck you," Foreman laughed, remembering that stupid-assed sequined dress and the wig and platforms. "He was dropping acid or something--you saw his eyes. His pupils were the size of pinholes. If I'm Mercutio, then it's the part where--"

"You get in a stupid-arsed fight with Juliet's cousin and bleed to death because you're in denial about the seriousness of your injuries and if you'd just gone to the Emergency Room like a sensible person, none of the rest of the movie would have happened?"

"Yeah, well, you're Emo!Romeo and you swear bloody vengeance upon John Leguizamo, the Prince of Cats, for killing me, so I obviously mean a lot to you. Huh--I guess that means Cameron's Rosaline."

"Shut up," Chase moaned and let himself slide to the floor. There was a stack of _Paste_ magazines on House's computer desk. He lunged upward, grabbed the most recent one, and opened it, deciding an article about Modest Mouse was far better than looking at Foreman's stupid face.

Cameron dried her hair and looked into the locker room mirror. Cuddy's words still rang in her ears, both the warnings about her fling with Chase and her accusations of House going behind their backs with knowledge of his tumor. She frowned, opening her locker and yanking out a fresh set of scrubs and stepping into them. She remembered the way Wilson had come into the free office she'd settled into and warning her about the date she'd been about to have with House. She'd been shocked to find out that Wilson wasn't worried about her at all, but House--that Wilson sincerely worried that she'd hurt him. She still didn't know why everyone insisted that House--and now Chase--were to be tiptoed around or that she was only in this to make House jealous. She'd broken it off with him, hadn't she? There wasn't anything that House was going to get jealous about. Right?

She huffed, tying her hair back into a ponytail and taking the stairs down to the first floor. House was a notorious insomniac, she knew, and even with cancer there might still be a chance he was awake. She passed the On-Call Room and saw Cuddy and Wilson curled up on the couch and recliner, dressed in scrubs as she was. The door to the ICU guest room Cuddy had given House's parents was closed, the room dark. She could hear quiet talking going on, but couldn't make out any of the words. She resisted the urge to put her ear to the door and instead took a deep breath to steady her nerves before she went in.

House was awake, but just barely. He was holding the remote to the DVD/VCR and staring at the screen with heavy-lidded eyes. She glanced at the screen, saw a spaceship, and shook her head in reluctant amusement. She considered leaving, knowing he was inches from falling asleep again, but the sudden realization that his eyes were on her and that they'd hardened startled her.

"Don't you have Chase's heart to be burning to the ground right about now?" he asked quietly, his voice hoarse and tired. "Or are you done using him for now?"

Cameron frowned, her mouth opening to start a rebuttal, but House continued, his tone cold and sharp. "Congratulations, you've become the immature high school asshole who stomped all over Chase's heart because you couldn't handle seriousness. Well, what the fuck did you think you'd've been getting with me?"

"It's not--I'm not--"

"Who the hell do you think you are? You think Cuddy's not allowed to reprimand you for turning her hospital into your own little brothel, feeling Chase up in fucking storage closets on the off-chance that I'd catch you and then using us _both_ as an excuse to say you don't want anything so he should just ignore what _you_ started? Who the fuck do you think you _are?_ Jesus, Cameron, Wilson may be the hospital manwhore, but you've got him beat in the manipulation department. At least the nurses know what the hell they're getting into."

She stared at him, disbelief puddling in her stomach and she wanted to protest, wanted to say he was wrong and out of line for talking to her the way he was. But she couldn't.

"You don't get to perform amateur surgery on people's hearts and not expect it to catch up with you. Karma's instant. All anyone has to do is add water and your life--your career is over. You're being an idiot and you don't even know why. If you don't want commitment, don't want strings attached, don't want anything to be about anything, then don't fuck your coworkers. Especially don't fuck your coworkers or try to blackmail your superiors who have back and reissues that you could never comprehend because it's out of the realm of possibility within your rosy little outlook. Trust isn't something you can break up and rebuild. You're the main one telling _me_ that people aren't puzzles. Go learn that lesson for yourself before trying to impart some of that sage wisdom onto me. You want someone to take you seriously, start acting like it because right now I've lost the ability to feel even a modicum of respect for you in every capacity outside of work and even that's suffering because you insist on trying to act like you're not yourself. You get attached to everyone and every damned thing. It took me four days to convince you to tell a twenty-seven year old that she would die of metatastic lung cancer in six months. What happened to that person? Where the hell did she go? It's like you're trying to pretend that she doesn't exist anymore. Either that or you're bipolar. I haven't decided which and I'm really tired of trying. Whatever."

Cameron watched with blurred vision as House started to sink into the pillows behind him, exhaustion beginning to override the energy his anger and disappointment had given him.

"I was proud of you when you decided to end your ridiculous locker-room sit in and did for Ezra Powell what Chase and I wanted--what he wanted. Patients have rights and dignity and people try to take those things away from them and reduce them to states of subhumanity because they have this notion that their need for this person to continue their shitty existence is paramount to the suffering they'll endure in the meantime. It's the epitome of selfishness and one of the things that makes me believe that every doctor has a god--no, a _supreme deity_ complex because they think this patient's decision to die reflects poorly on them. Screw them. You rose above that and I was proud of you. Then you forgot who you were and now none of us know you anymore. I feel like it's my fault, really. I've changed you--working with me. You used to give a shit. I feel like I took that away from you and made you bitter and cold. I feel like I made you like me and to quote Johnny the Homicidal Maniac, _I don't like myself very much._ I don't want that for you. So...stop...bullshitting around. If you don't want anything serious with Chase, then be honest with him and stop making him your lap dog. He deserves better and you know it. I want you to stop stooping to some level that shouldn't even be there. Maybe when I'm gone you can do that. God, I hope so. I miss the old Cameron. She was annoying, but at least the rest of us could respect her in the morning. You used to be my Kaylee. My irrepressible glare of sunshine that made my hangovers all the more painful. When did the hurricane season start?"

His eyes were closed now and Cameron was glad because he couldn't see her crying. She watched the pulse oximeter readings begin registering sleep and turned to leave. She didn't see anything until suddenly she was sitting in her car in the parking garage, crying harder than she'd ever done in her life.

_...I don't feel the way I've ever felt...I know...Going to smile and not get worried...I try, but it shows..._

...TBC...


	7. Chapter 7

**Disintegration**  
_By Angelfirenze_

**Disclaimer:** Shore, Jacobs, Singer, et al., own everything. The lyrics belong to various bands. Also, the poisonous jug of eggnog really did exist. It was disgusting.

**Summary:** I threw him away like a piece of garbage! I'll have to live with that for the rest of his life--for the rest of mine! The point is that we have to live!

**Pairing:** House/Cuddy, eventually. nods**  
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**Rating: FRM** for bounds of angst that have yet to fully materialize...**  
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**Notes:** There's a wee bit of implied, unrequited House/Cuddy/Wilson in this chapter because I couldn't resist and **goddesspharo** quite kindly allowed me to reference her awesome fic 'Five Dates that Lisa Cuddy Never Finished' for a scene here. Much, much thanks to her for it. Reviews are always encouraged and appreciated.

_...Rock bottom's where we live..._

He was hot...too hot, but he was freezing. Theoretically, he understood that he had a dangerous fever and that it had to be brought down but that didn't stop him from screaming when Chase and Wilson tried to put him in that stupid ice bath. Now he knew how his homeless patient felt. He didn't have hydrophobia--well, not technically. A fear of cold water is different from fear of water in and of itself. But it didn't stop him from screaming, from thrashing (mindless, heedless of his bad leg) so much that they had to get people to hold him down. Eventually they gave up and Cuddy ended up doing the same thing for him that she'd done for Alice that night he'd made her cry. He sat there with her and Mom in the shower, crying and damned near unconscious as Cuddy and Mom both held him under the icy spray. He wanted to hate them (no, he didn't--honest), clawed weakly at them, swore and snarled all the things he wanted to say to the one who put him in this position, but he couldn't. Eventually, he got too tired and couldn't move and they wrapped him in towels and blankets, rubbing with renewed vigor to bring the feeling back to his hands and feet and he was given something (a sharp poke of a needle and he knew nothing for a while and it was nice) but that wore off and then everything hurt.

He kept his eyes shut, hoping the throbbing and the shaking would go away. He knew he wasn't shaking on the outside because he couldn't move, just like the hurt wasn't on the outside either. It was all trapped inside him and he didn't know how to get it out. So he just lay there like he had so often and just hurt and hurt. Mom was holding him, he thought, and Lisa was there, too, doing something...but he couldn't think and it hurt.

_...I don't know what's worth fighting for or why I have to scream..._

John stared and balled his hands into fists as he watched Gregory thrashing and screaming as the water fell down on him. He didn't realize he'd cut his palms until someone was prying his hands apart. He didn't look at them as they swiped something that stung (far less than he deserved, he knew) over what must have been cuts and didn't react as he was led to a chair or some damned thing and made to sit down.

He didn't realize he was crying again until Wilson murmured something in what he vaguely recognized as Hebrew and John glanced at the younger man before his eyes alighted on his own palms. There was dried blood in the cuts his hands had created, with more smeared across his skin.

"You've really done a number on yourself," Wilson sighed, throwing the bloodstained swabs into the wastepaper basket and ripping open new ones. John noticed, then, that he was wearing latex gloves and holding John's right palm open in a firm, but gentle grip.

"I deserve worse," John heard himself say, a pain lancing through him as Wilson paused while cleaning his palm. The younger man frowned and pulled out a sort of squirt bottle before dribbling cold, clean water onto his hand and rinsing the blood away. They were positioned over a small sink and John watched as the stained water swirled down the drain.

"You're not helping him, you know--apologizing all the time. Hating yourself." Wilson was frowning now, his eyes trained firmly on John's cleaner hand. He finished squirting more water and wiped the rest of the blood away before adding gauze and taping a bandage to the hand he held. He seemed to gesture for the other hand before simply giving his head a small shake and reaching for it himself. "How is he going to be able to enjoy what time he has left with you if you won't let either of yourselves learn from what happened before?"

"How can I--?" John started to ask but Wilson cut him off with a terse shake of his head.

"He can't forget. There's no way anyone should ever expect him to. He's not supposed to and neither are you. _Trying_ to forget is what's caused you both to be so miserable in the first place. I didn't say 'forget'. I said _learn_. You--you screwed up," Wilson looked up from the remaining hand, then, his grip on John's wrist increasing just a fraction. "But it doesn't mean anything for either one of you if you keep harping on it like it happened yesterday."

"Look at him!" John said desperately, his eyes widening as he remembered Gregory's screams. "He can't stand cold water! That's _my_--"

"Yes! Yes, it is! You're the son of a bitch who did that to him! Who took his power away and his security and told him he was nothing! But you conveniently forget that someone did that to you first! You forget that you're just as much of a victim as he is, even if it kills you to admit it! You took his sense of self because someone took yours first!"

John stared as Wilson let go of his hand momentarily to begin the gesticulating that Greg always seemed to find so funny. "Whoever hurt you--they stole your ability to appreciate connections to other people. Blythe is the only person in the world you've ever confided in and I'm sure that wasn't even a choice you made. You can't sleep alone. You have nightmares and flashbacks, you lash out and don't understand why--you say horrible things to people and hurt them, but if I asked you what they did wrong, you wouldn't be able to give me a valid reason. You have anxiety attacks, you can't figure out for yourself how you're feeling at any given time. Your attachment to Blythe is such that whenever she was away, everything--even your son was a threat! None of this has ever occurred to you because you're too damaged to ever believe it! You and your son are a textbook example of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder! You both have flashbacks--Greg's been having night terrors since he was three years old! You named your son after the people who destroyed your life! You both self-injure! You haven't _slept_ more than three hours since you got here YESTERDAY! You and Greg NEED HELP, JOHN!"

John couldn't breathe. He could feel hands on his shoulders, gripping tightly. "John, listen to me. LISTEN. You think you're the only one who's hurt Greg? I've ignored him all fucking year! I'm an oncologist and my best friend--my brother didn't trust me enough to tell me he had a brain tumor! And I didn't give him any reason to! I threw him away like a piece of garbage! I'll have to live with that for the rest of his life--for the rest of mine! The point is that we have to live!"

John stared as Wilson let go of him and swiped at his eyes with his left arm. "He can't live and we owe it to him to try, ourselves. We've caused him enough pain. Forced him to bear ours. We weren't fair. I..." Wilson turned away and stared at the opposite wall.

"My first wife--I've been married three times. The first two I cheated on because...well, I don't know why. I'm stupid. Anyway, my third cheated on me and it's what I deserved. Anyway, Bonnie and I--we had this dog. He's hers now. House has never met him and I don't want him to. Out of spite, Bonnie named him Hector Does Go Rug. An anagram for Dr. Gregory House--and I let her. I--she hates him just as much as Julie did. They thought Greg took up too much of my time, that he knew I had a wife at home and didn't care. But the truth is, I let him--and Lisa, truth be told...distract me from them. I..._didn't...care..._about them as much as I do about Greg, about Lisa, about the things we have in common like our jobs. They were just...space fillers...or something."

John is staring at Wilson now, wondering and at the same time dreading where the younger man was going with this revelation of his. "They were replacements for the ones I couldn't have."

John blinked. "Are...you're tellin' me..."

Wilson spun around, his face a strange mix of exhilaration and devastation. "I don't know. I don't know about any of that. I just know that even with Lisa and I...Greg is what holds us together. I'm confident that if I didn't know him, Lisa and I wouldn't have two words to say to each other. Hell, she might have fired me by now, I don't know. I just know that when we're all together, we mock each other endlessly--it's the land of ties and canes and three-inch heels from Hell and we have this thing where Lisa goes on these dates and she hated us at first for interrupting all the time--House started it, of course, but I knew what was going on after that. She blamed us both and then she started calling us because I think she enjoyed the easy out we gave her...one time she made Frank or Fred or Fresco or whatever the hell his name was cry and not five minutes later, she was out with us, eating frozen yogurt. It was brilliant and we made a sideline out of being her personal homewreckers."

Then John watches Wilson sigh in a helpless-seeming fashion. "And I think I--because I know Greg did--enjoyed it, too. I knew what we were going to do, after that first time. I _knew_ and she did, too. We were her knights in shining armor, for once, and I--we loved it."

John listens to Wilson sigh again. "And I'm afraid because I've spent the last year being the worst friend, the worst anything...for Greg and I'm afraid because when he's gone, I'm going to lose Lisa and she'll lose me because it'll hurt too much. Everything we ever did--every joke we ever told. How on Lisa's birthday a couple of weeks ago, Greg and I snuck into her office and played 'Cupid's Chokehold' by Gym Class Heroes on the loudspeaker and..."

And here Wilson begins to laugh and cry at once and John suddenly notices that Wilson's done bandaging both hands and he turns them over flat on the metal table beneath them and looks back at the man now beginning to pace through the small examination room they're in.

"There's a part where the song goes: _...And man, she even cooks me pancakes and Alka-Seltzer when my tummy aches...If that ain't love then I don't know what love is...We even got a secret handshake, she loves the music that my band makes...I know I'm young, but if I had to choose her or the sun, I'd be one nocturnal son of a gun..._"

Wilson laughs again and rips the latex gloves off his hands. "I'm the one who makes the pancakes and Greg gets the Alka-Seltzer, but...I always chose them. Both of them--Greg, more...than I ever even _thought_ about my wives. He could call in the middle of dinner, sex, whatever--and I'd just leave. The same for Lisa paging either one of us. Greg used to get into trouble with Stacy because he stays here for days on end, drowning himself in his cases and she wouldn't hear from him for all that time. She hated that. And she hated that he didn't...well, there is no seem. He chose his job over her and wouldn't talk to her for days at a time. He talked to me all the time, though, and she would come to me asking about him because he wouldn't tell her anything. Lisa would page him for a case and suddenly, she didn't exist. But he never cheated on her, so she was just...I think she would have _preferred_ if he'd cheated because then he could claim some sort of excuse. But if there's one thing Greg's never done, it's made excuses. He refuses to and I think that's what she couldn't understand. I never did either and Bonnie, Julie--they wanted a target for their anger. They could excuse Lisa for taking up my time because she's my boss and pays the paychecks that now fuel their alimony--well, Julie's at any rate. Anyway, they couldn't fault Lisa, so they focused on Greg. I'm sure they really hate both because they're my best friends, our lives are in this building. We really don't have to leave, if we try. Our refrigerators here are stocked in ways our own never will be--Greg's should be autoclaved. Last month, I found a carton of eggnog in the back at the apartment that had an expiration date of December sixth of last year. It was so solidified, it got stuck when I tried to pour it down the drain and I had to run the hot water as high it would go before it liquified enough to go down for the garbage disposal. It was absurd. The point is...you don't get to be a Department Head or Dean of Medicine if your aim is to have some sort of life."

_...Awake, alone, in a woman's room, I hardly know..._

Wilson glowers at him, then, and frowns. "I hated how you used to ask Greg what he'd been doing beside work. Like...like he's too boring for you or something. Even before the infarction, he worked constantly but unlike you, he didn't neglect any family to do it. We're already here. He lives inside his head--the excitement he gets from just _thinking about something_...from every angle, considering every possibility. Lisa once told him he got high on his ideas and you can't comprehend that, so you make _him_ feel bad for it, as though there's something wrong with the inner workings of his mind. It's why he never tried to explain. You're trying to change that, now, and I can't tell you how happy I am about that. Because you've missed out on knowing this spectacular person for far too long and it makes me mourn for both of you. And for Blythe because she's always been stuck in the middle. But I guess it's how my wives used to feel. I shared things with Greg and Lisa that I never could with my wives. They've never lost patients--they've never laughed because Greg got sued for the hundredth time. They don't know what Paperfest is. They don't know me half as well as these two people. And I don't know them. I call them 'my wives' in plural, like they're all one entity, like they're this chapter in my life that I'd like to rip out. I really should. They should rip me out, too."

_...We'll always have each other...When everyone else is gone..._

Wilson lowers himself back onto the metal stool he'd occupied earlier and took a deep breath. "Lisa says that Greg and I are like a couple of teenagers when we're together, but she can't talk. We make her petty, apparently. But I'm closer to them than I ever was to anyone else. They feel like home. Seriously, if you ask me what their favorite colors are, I can tell you but My Wives--capital letters are important there--I'd probably have to randomly stab at the rainbow and see what happened. An apology to Lisa means he's playing 'Tangled' by Maroon 5. A surprise is a pint of Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia with sprinkles. On the other hand, it took me weeks to notice my wives were angry with me.

"Julie threw my copy of Gray's Anatomy at my head--ironically the one Lisa had bought me for Chrismukkah. I think she convinced herself that Greg bought it so that made it okay to throw. He bought me a silver scalpel and I'm glad she didn't throw _that_. I can't remember my anniversaries but the ninth of October, 1994, will always stand out for me because I started working here that day. I met Lisa and shook her hand, then I met Greg when he decided that because our offices are next door to each other, he'd come out on the balcony and throw popcorn at me. I still don't know what the significance was, but I know Lisa had a hard time wiping the smile off her face when Greg told her about it. Whatever. Everyone thinks I'm a saint--that Lisa and I are both saints because we continue to 'subject' ourselves to Greg's presence, seemingly of our own free will. I'll be the first to tell you I'm a huge asshole and more often than not he puts up with _me_. Lisa's a ball-breaker and if you think that's an insult, you don't know her very well. I..."

Wilson took another deep breath and turned to face the window adjacent to where they sat. He balled his fist and made a motion like he was going to punch the glass, but seemed to think better of it. "It's like we're a birdhouse. Lisa's the base and I'm the roof. Greg's the glue holding us together and we're about to fall apart. We're going to break into pieces and there's nothing anyone can do about that--chemotherapy, medication, surgery...more often than not, they mean nothing. And I was so busy being the unsympathetic bastard that everyone paints him to be that I didn't even bother to help him. I'm an oncologist--the fucking _Chief_ here and my own best friend didn't trust me enough to tell me about the mass currently pressing on his parietal lobe. How selfish am I?"

John watches, mesmerized at the sheer _emotion_ in Wilson's voice when talking about Greg and Lisa. He used to lecture Greg on friendship, saying he didn't know what being a friend was. But he was wrong. Again. He wouldn't get this worked up for any of his buddies that he went to fucking _war_ with. He doesn't know a damned thing about them. Not really. So it's a surprise and a shock how upset Wilson is. How much he obviously cares for Greg and Lisa. How much Greg cares for them.

"Maybe...maybe I let my wives think the things I did about Greg because it meant they didn't want anything to do with him. They didn't care to know Lisa--she was just a nameless, faceless Boss--but Greg was tangible. They've heard his voice, they've seen his face. So they thought all these things about him and wouldn't touch him with a ten-foot pole and I liked it that way because that meant I didn't have to share him with them. He was _my friend_ not _ours_." Wilson laughs then and runs a hand through his hair. "I'm the youngest of my brothers. Lisa is the oldest of her family. Greg--you obviously know he's an only child. If anyone should be acting like they're entitled to anything, it should be them. But here I was, hoarding them, being a greedy little prick. I didn't _want_ to share him with my wives. Hell, even when he was with Stacy, I only gave her the bare minimum of information and she let me because she _liked_ blaming him. I guess he didn't see the point of caring about it because he's used to being to blame for everything. He saw it as another immutable fact of life, choices be damned. But me? He once said I was a closeted asshole. Never mind being gay, I give new meaning to being in the closet because I'm sweet caring Doctor Wilson with everyone else, but I'm a fucking devil when it comes to those closest to me. Like you, I always thought this was something he was doing to himself. That he was pursuing some kind of high. To hell with a high. Last year, I...and Greg laughs about how it happened to this day...I tripped over the balcony between our offices and fell and fractured my hand. My left hand. I'm left-handed. I was an absolute baby about it. I was put on hydrocodone for the first two weeks and you wouldn't believe the pain I was in when it wore off. And all Greg would do was look at me with this strange expression and refill my prescription. He didn't ask me why I felt I needed the relief. He just...took care of me."

Then Wilson got an indescribably bitter expression on his face. "I, on the other hand, told him how _his_ leg was feeling--how much pain _he_ was in, refused to write him a scrip, and lied to him about a patient he cured that used to be mine. I'm a prideful, deceitful...motherfucking asshole and I don't know why he puts up with _me_."

Wilson was gripping the edge of the padded table before him so hard John could hear it creak. He was crying now and John didn't think he realized he was. "I left him _all alone._ I'm just like you, but I'm worse because I put my pride before our friendship. His never occurred to me. He doesn't _ask for help._ Lisa's right. We don't deserve him. Maybe now we're getting our comeuppance."

_...I wipe my feelings off...Make me untouchable for life..._

Blythe stroked Greg's hair as he lay motionless in the scrubs she and Lisa had dressed him in. She knew that if he'd been at all coherent, he would have tried to hide his leg from her the way he usually did. She bit her lip and tried not to think of the way he'd sounded in the shower, screaming and crying at the feel of the water hitting his feverish skin. She had held him as hard as she could, crying only after Greg had been sedated into unconsciousness. His fever was gone now, which was the only upside that she could see.

His hair, unruly as always, was soft and fluffy from the toweling she'd given it and she ran her hand through it now. He never let her touch him for very long when he was awake and aware. Most of her knew he didn't avoid her on purpose, that he wasn't trying to push her away...but it was painful, knowing that even as his mother, she couldn't soothe whatever hurts he had. And it hurt even worse to wonder just how many there were, open and bleeding even now. So she relished the fact that he wasn't fighting right now, that he'd allow her to hold him because there wasn't anything else he _could_ do. Sighing and biting her lip, she gently took hold of his torso and wrapped her arms around his, squeezing him in that way he used to like when he was very small. She could feel the tension in his body, even sedated as he was now, and squeezed a little more before kissing the top of his head. He seemed to resist just for a fraction of a second before sliding downward back into the sheets and blankets. She could feel him shaking, still.

_...Play it off like stigmata for crossover fans...Some red-handed slight of hand..._

"I love you," she whispered, wishing for once in her life that she was what her grandmother had called 'properly religious'. She wondered if it would give her comfort at the moment. Greg called himself a 'third generation agnostic, first generation atheist.' He found it darkly humorous that his mother's family (Jewish, for all intents and purposes, and in name if nothing else) firmly embraced the idea that none of them could say for sure that God existed, but his father's family--all Catholics and devoutly obedient to the end--were a group of people so singularly miserable that from the moment she'd met John, she'd liked nothing better than to take him away from them, show him what love and family were really about. Country, she'd seen time and time again, and so-called duty were secondary to love and being happy with your place in the world and everything in it. She's asked John before what he would have been if he'd never been a Marine. She's never received an answer. Over the years, she came to believe there wasn't one. She thinks that John believes that God meant for him to live the way he has and that doesn't sit well with her. She can't fathom the idea that any supreme being so supposedly loving would have ever wanted her husband or son to suffer in the ways that they have. From the beginning, she's never believed that God had anything to do with the terrible ordeals inflicted upon either of them. But the knowledge that people like Robert or Lisa or James would see her son as someone worth praying for, worth pondering the state of his soul, his body, his sanity...the fact that they feel that close to him, gives her a sort of comfort she cherishes more than she can say. Because she knows he is loved and it makes her indescribably happy.

She laughs a little inside, the very thought bringing tears to her eyes, and she leans forward to kiss his hair again. She can speak Hebrew, though she hasn't in a very long time. She does now, giving his hand another little squeeze and letting go as she feels him slide into sleep.

"_Ani ohevet otcha_," she whispers and watches his chest rise and fall slowly. She hopes he'll have an amusing dream to comfort him, make him laugh and smile. She hopes he'll sing in his sleep.

_...Our Father, who art in Heaven, save me from the wreck I'm about to drown in..._

...TBC...


	8. Chapter 8

**Disintegration**  
_By Angelfirenze_

**Disclaimer:** Shore, Jacobs, Singer, et al., own everything. The lyrics belong to various bands. The disclaimer started to get a bit long, so just know that a lot of inspiration was had in a lot of places. Not mine. I did borrow some dialogue from an untitled ficlet that I wrote before 'Half-Wit' aired. Some will recognize it.

**Summary:** And if there was one thing Robert knew, his father didn't tell real lies. He leaned forward onto his knees and bowed until his hair skirted the blankets beneath him, words coming unbidden in urgent request.

**Pairing:** House/Cuddy, eventually. nods

**Rating: R** for Smut Tuesday because I haven't participated in a long time and while I am working on 'Excuse' again, I got an idea for this one, too.

**Notes:** Okay, since I've obviously completely fucked screwed canon at this point and everything's out of order anyway, I'm going to mention some of my favorite things that happened during the past few episodes. Plus, the awesomeness that is House vs. Wilson for Cuddy when she could really have them both, rounds one (Who's Your Daddy?) and two (Act Your Age). I'm told I'm not alone. And thanks to **tiggpwns** and **medanomaly** for their input even if I wasn't able to use it all right away. Enjoy! The Latinate is the Lord's Prayer and an entreaty from Chase that House be allowed to rest.

Reviews are always encouraged and appreciated.

_...When my time comes, forget the wrong that I've done...Help me leave behind some reasons to be missed...And don't resent me when you're feeling empty...Keep me in your memory, leave out all the rest...Leave out all the rest..._

When he woke up, it was dark and quiet, which was nice. The pounding and everything else had abated a bit and he sighed in relief. Mom and Dad were both there and they looked up from what they were doing, looks of surprise melting into happiness, as well.

"Hey, there, kiddo," Dad said and Mom got up and came over to him, her arms coming around him for a moment and he was still so tired he let her for a while. But then the burning feeling in his arms and shoulder got to be too much and he tried to wriggle away. She sighed and relented, kissing the top of his head one more time.

"How are you?" she asked, backing away and sitting in the chair that Dad had moved closer in her absence.

"Ti...red..." he whispered, unable to keep from sighing again. Then a thought occurred to him and he would have sat up straight if he'd had the energy.

"What?" Dad asked, his brow furrowing. "What's wrong?"

"Need...Cud--Lise...the three blind mice...need leads."

"What?" Dad asked, now thoroughly confused, but Greg just shook his head and tried to reach for the phone next to his bed. He couldn't get a grip on the handset and it would have fallen to the floor if Mom hadn't caught it.

"What's Lisa's number?" she asked and he took a deep breath and smiled as much as he was able. Mom always knew the gist, at least; he never had to explain.

"4...8...5...6...pound. That's...her p-pag...er..."

Mom tapped out the numbers on the keypad and instantly the beeping of a pager sounded in the hallway. Within seconds, Cuddy was whirling into his room in all her administrative glory. "Let me guess, you're bored out of your skull and since you can't get the Playboy channel here--"

"Ha ha," Greg scowled, before thinking about it and leering at her. "Though, if you wanted...we could hold tryouts--"

"I didn't call Lisa in here for that, thank you," Mom cut him off, frowning as she heard Dad's wheezy laugh behind her back. "If you two would kindly remember that we're sitting right here, that'd be great."



"Okay, first of all," Greg sighed, glad he finally had enough energy to get out a whole sentence. "Your husband's idea of dinner conversation is asking whether or not I've gotten laid recently." He grinned cheekily then and Dad groaned as Mom and Cuddy each sent him identical looks of 'I told you so'.

"I told you that would come back to bite you in the butt," Mom said with an airy sense of satisfaction. "I said, 'don't you ask him about that'--now you see."

"I did not--" Dad started but Greg cut him off, turning to Cuddy instead.

"Cuddy, is your mother still conducting that futile search for the errant grandchildren you obviously have stashed under your floorboards and are keeping from her out of spite?"

"Ha!" Cuddy laughed, deciding that since she was here, she'd at least get House's temperature and a set of vitals. All were stable for now and she breathed her own sigh of relief before sitting in the last empty chair. "For all your assertions that I'm the Wicked Witch, I think she's started to believe you."

"Don't worry, Jimmy and I are planning Hansel and Gretel's rescue from the gingerbread house."

"Yeah, well, in the meantime, please restrain yourself from eating my shingles while you're there."

"Of course. We wouldn't want another handyman to fall off your roof. By the way: best morning ever." Greg grinned widely, tilting his head in a reverent fashion.

Cuddy snorted, "Only because you enjoyed ogling me even more than usual."

Greg allowed himself a falsely affronted expression. "Hey, you're the one who didn't change out of your exercise clothes after calling the ambulance. How could I resist with the girls practically in plain sight? Cuddy, you torture me and furthermore you enjoy it!"

"Remember the part where I asked you two to stop?" Mom interjected, glaring at Dad, who was doubled over in his chair, laughing silently and holding his stomach. "I really don't want to hear about my son sexually harassing one of his friends, who also happens to be his boss."

"I am not. She wants _me_--and anyway, that didn't stop her from sending Eva Longoria's equally hot twin into Exam Room Three JUST FOR ME!"

Cuddy grinned wickedly then and Greg laughed in triumph. "I knew it! See, you set me up! And, hey, we never finished our date!"

Cuddy held her hand out, then, "You were paged, repeatedly, because your patient was _dying_ and your fellows interrupted tacos on the hood of your car, not a night at the opera. Either way, you touched her--you owe me ten bucks."

"You set me up! The proof was undeniable!" Greg laughed now, remembering how she'd sighed as he poked her in the back with the evidence of her treachery. "You want your damned ten dollars, page my wallet and we'll get it taken care of."

"Fine," Cuddy smirked and leaned over, tapping out Wilson's pager number on the phone. Within moments he was in the doorway, gasping for air and barely managing to hold onto the bag of lollipops he was carrying. John stood and grabbed his arms before he fell over and Wilson tossed him a grateful glance before his attention snapped back toward the matter he thought was at hand.

"What's...wrong...?" Wilson gasped, dropping the bag of candy and whipping his stethoscope into his ears before he'd even gotten an answer.

"James, relax," Lisa held out her hands to stop him. "I just got Greg's vitals. He's fine. He owes me ten dollars, which means he's going to owe _you_ ten dollars, but he's fine right now. Don't worry."

Wilson paused, processing what Cuddy had just told him, before sighing, rolling his eyes and pulling out his wallet, his breathing now starting to slow. "Is...this...about the not-touching-patients thing?"

"Of course it is!" Greg declared melodramatically, scowling as Wilson handed the Evil 

One a crisp new twenty and listened to her promise to give him ten back later. "Her vicious, underhanded ways--"

"Like buying me flowers and signing her name?" Wilson asked, going back to the doorway and retrieving the lollipops before dropping them in Greg's lap. Wilson grinned as Greg attacked the bag, grabbing a swirly blue and cream one, unwrapping it, and popping it in his mouth.

"You bought me Chupa Chups!" he cheered, taking the time to twirl the candy before grinning and showing off the burgeoning blue tongue he now sported.

Wilson grinned and Cuddy sighed and looked at his parents, who both looked amused despite his boyish behavior. "You know, it's times like this that dupe strangers into thinking he's easy to please or amuse."

Dad snorted, Mom laughed, and Greg stuck out his now far bluer tongue before 'begrudgingly' passing the bag around. Lisa and Mom both refused, but Dad and Wilson both took one each. He got the bag back and opened the drawer of his bedside table, dropping the bag in and closing it.

"Anyway," Wilson reiterated, pointing at House with the strawberry lollipop he was eating. "You tricked me, too. This is just like that."

"Yeah, like that," Cuddy agreed, laughing now at the fact that both Mom and Dad were staring at all three of them, confusion written plainly on their faces.

"You bought Wilson _flowers_?" Dad asked, struggling to understand why. "And signed Lisa's name?"

"I ship Wilson/Cuddy," Greg shrugged, knowing that didn't clear anything up in the slightest.

"You do not," Cuddy objected, remembering the previous year. "You just like messing with him. But you both think that going through my trash is the way to my heart."

"I was looking for--" Wilson objected, but Cuddy raised an eyebrow at him and he bit his lip.

"Right, well, do tell your friend here that digging through my trash is not the same as a handwritten note with check boxes. And you _knew_ after that first time that--"

"Yeah, I know!" Wilson burst out, trying to forestall anymore exposition and Dad laughed again, garnering the attention of everyone else.

Wilson sighed and looked at House. "I wrapped up your dad's hands while you were being transferred back here. We had a little chat about 'Cupid's Chokehold' on Cuddy's birthday two weeks ago, among other things. Like a certain string of dates that we enabled the escapee in question to abscond from..."

"She made Floyd or Flanders or...whoever cry," Greg nodded, understanding, and Cuddy gritted her teeth and let her eyes roll toward the ceiling in irritation at their continued assertion on that point.

"I did _not_!"

"He was dabbing his eyes on his napkin, Cuddles," Greg countered, gesturing toward Wilson, who nodded in agreement.

"I think I saw him go for the tablecloth at one point--there might have been a honking noise..."

"Cuddy, you maneater, you. Careful, everyone, there's shards of broken testicles all over the floor."

"Shut up!" Cuddy burst out as Dad laughed again and Wilson and Greg each chuckled, watching her with ill-concealed glee. Mom sighed heavily, but Greg could see her smiling anyway. Cuddy was gathering steam now and raved more feverishly. "And--and you stole my date!" She rounded on Wilson, who immediately stopped laughing as Greg started anew.

"Hey--no," Wilson protested, pointing at the doorway before beginning to gesticulate once more. "Brian stole _me_--"  


"Ooh, _Brian_," Greg cooed and Cuddy smothered another cackle. "And did _Brian_ score a victory and get your number?"

"No and shut up, House. He dragged me away and you two sat back and let him! No, there weren't any hickeys when I came back because _nothing happened_ before I finally managed to ditch him, while you two ran off to watch 90210 reruns!"

"Without you," Greg interjected and Cuddy snickered.

"Poor James, he missed the Brenda years--grade A drama."

"Yes! Without me! And you act like we ruined something for you! You didn't even like him! He probably hates you now!"

"Breakups can be so hard," Greg muttered and Cuddy flicked him in the shoulder.

"All I said was that I didn't think it was going to work out! He was more boring than a tax return! And _you_--" she reached back over and poked House gently in the chest.

"Have your fantasies confused with real life most of the time. Contrary to what you seem to believe, I am one: not a transsexual--which really says more about you than it does about me--and two: not a dominatrix!"

"Not for lack of trying," House disagreed airily. "I know you keep those whips and chains _well-oiled_ down in your dungeon--give Chase lessons. He could use them."

"I'll let him borrow my chair, too. Maybe a corset."

"That's the spirit..."

"Yeah, remember that _shame_ I asked you two about?" Wilson asked, then glancing at Mom and Dad, who were staring at them in absolute shock now. "You know, where it went and whether there were any vestiges to be salvaged?"

Greg pretended to think for a moment, "My shame was last seen around third grade, I think. You see it, tell it owes me millions in restitution and back pay."

Cuddy in turn pretended to scowl, "Owes _me_, you mean. Meanwhile, I lost mine the moment I met this jackass. I'm still looking for it..."

"She's abandoned hope, though. After twenty-four hours...Besides, what do we need shame for when you're burdened with an overabundance that--despite our thrice combined best efforts--we have yet to override?"

"True," Cuddy conceded with a fake sigh. "We try so hard, as do you, but you just _have_ to be--"

"A damned boy scout...Alas..."

"Well," Wilson deadpanned then. "That settles that."

House pulled a face. "I don't know why it wasn't settled before now, because you need so much proof. Choir boy."

"_Corrupt_ choir boy," Cuddy corrected and Wilson scowled at her this time.

"And you're both so proud. You two should be on Broadway. Or daytime television. You'd love that, House."

"But, Jimmy, you know how I get around crowds..." House pretended to shudder. "And you weren't innocent when I met you--many a nurse can attest to that. I bet you if I did some digging, I'd find a long line of broken hearts strewn about the tri-state."

"Somehow," Dad announced, bringing an end to the blatant debauchery being discussed before him. "I doubt we really needed to hear any of that. I'm hungry."

"Good luck on your hunt," Greg well-wished in a falsely cheery voice. "Bring me back a nice, juicy squirrel!"

"Greg, hush," Mom said, placing a hand over his mouth as Cuddy and Wilson each smirked at his dad's annoyed expression. Wilson rolled his eyes and offered to pay for dinner, 

which Dad--of course--refused to allow.

"Greg, I don't want to come back up here and find you swinging from the rafters," Mom told him in a mock-stern voice, at which he smiled.

"Great idea, Mom," he grinned, pretending to eye the balcony just beyond his window. "I'll wow you with somersaults when you get back. But you have to eat all your vegetables. Wouldn't want to set a bad example for me, now, would you?"

Dad snorted and Greg reached for the remote to amuse himself while he and Cuddy waited quietly for them to come back. He turned on the television and left it between stations so that the screen was snowy and blank before turning the volume down so they could barely hear it. She watched him stare at the screen and think.

_...Well, we scheme and we scheme but we always blow it...We've yet to crash, but we still might as well enjoy it..._

Twenty minutes later, Wilson had taken his parents down to the cafeteria and House and Cuddy were alone in his room, the latter watching the former scroll idly through some random DVD's menu section, all the while refusing to actually choose something.

"What did you really call me down here for?" Cuddy asked, reaching over and gently taking the remote from him. "And don't tell me you wanted me to TiVo _General Hospital_ for you--Wilson already did that you days ago and you know it." She watched as a faint smile tried to climb onto his face, but failed and he tried to sit up again. She took hold of his arms and braced herself as he tried to find an increasingly unreliable center of gravity. He grunted in frustration and gave up, falling heavily back to the pillows and clenching his eyes shut as a sudden wave of nausea claimed him. Lisa readied the emesis basin as what little bile there was in his stomach upended itself and his torso spasmed in tandem with dry heaves, leaving him gasping for breath and sweaty with exertion. He swallowed compulsively, his fists clenching as Cuddy stood to go rinse the basin before pulling the divider around, removing the soiled scrubs and wetting a washcloth so she could cool him off before giving him fresh clothing.

"I can't control my body temperature anymore," he rasped, anger apparent in every line of his face. "Which means that either the GBM has grown large enough to adhere to my thalamus or there's a new one. Which means that I need either a partial lobectomy or as best a resection as can be done, both to offset the dysregulation and the seizures because they will return, probably sooner rather than later."

Cuddy fought the tears that threatened, then, hating when he got like this--disinterested in everything, discussing his own health as though he were speaking at a damned lecture.

She breathed deeply, restraining the urge to snap something at him because it would hardly help matters. She knew why he was like this, his automatic detachment from situations of a personal nature as familiar to her as the sound of the voice he used to do so. She'd learned long ago to recognize other signs of fear in him because his voice and brain wouldn't betray them easily after years of training not to. Under normal circumstances, he'd be roaming the hospital, evading his feelings with the same effort he put into getting away from clinic duty.

"You don't need a lobectomy," Cuddy responded, her voice as businesslike as she could manage. "Microsurgery would yield a much better outcome and you know it."

House sighed and gave some approximation of a nod.

"Tell Jimmy to get one of his buddies to plan a soirée for me as soon as they can...before I freeze to death or die of the heat."

He called Wilson 'Jimmy' and her heart hitched because that's when she knew just how afraid he was.

"But back to business," he said softly with a weak clap of his hands. His medical bracelet could now be freely twirled around his wrist where it had fit properly before. He'd lost weight in the last several days alone, on top of what was already falling away at a rate she wouldn't believe if she weren't a doctor and it wasn't so obvious. "The kids need placement. The fog has cleared for now and there's no better time than blah, blah, blah. Get Cameron in here, she's been avoiding me."



It was only with sheer practice that Cuddy managed to follow his thought pattern and she nodded, finally understanding what he was getting at. "You want to arrange for them to finish their fellowships elsewhere."

Part of her expected him to make some smartassed comment about her (admittedly) obvious statement, but either he was too tired or too angry to bother. She watched him nod and picked up the phone again to page Cameron first.

_...A cloud hangs over and mutes my happiness...A thousand ships come and sail me back from distress...Wish you were here, I'm a wounded satellite...I need you now, put me back together, make me right..._

Cameron stood before House now, wishing she'd had a bit more warning before being asked to come down here. She knew he was going to mention the fact that she's been trying to stay as far away from the ICU as possible for the past several days, but it was still impossible to brace herself for whatever onslaught he planned to lob at her now.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, exhaustion and something else she couldn't identify lining his words, making them somehow unrecognizable. She could feel Cuddy's eyes on her from where their superior sat in the chair next to House's bed, but tried (in vain; much like she's not succeeding at blocking out anything else, either) to forget that the other woman is here.

"Stop," Cameron interrupted, hoping that her voice wouldn't crack. "Stop _apologizing_. Please."

"I eviscerated you," House told her, and she couldn't stop staring at his blue eyes and the way they've sunken into his face in the mere days since she last saw him. He'd lost more weight and she could see the sharp angles of his bones where the gap in his hospital gown conceded to his shoulder.

"You didn't...I...Can we just stay on topic, please?"

House stares at her for so long, she starts wondering whether he's lost his sense of awareness again. "What would that topic _be_ again?" His voice was cold now and she flinched, wishing he would just shut up.

"I don't know. You asked Cuddy to call me down here."

"Glad you've remembered," Cuddy said flatly behind her and Cameron winced, wishing she was anywhere else right now. She glances around the room, trying to look at anything that isn't one of their faces and notices what looks like a brightly colored comic book on the bedside table. The cover has a gigantic 'Z' or question mark-like shape across it in purple and white.

"You seem to be of the impression people around here owe you something," House continues and she knows her plea has gone unheard (as if there should have been any doubt). Getting desperate, she glanced at the television to see a menu with what looked like the console to yet another space ship.

"Look at me," he snapped hoarsely and her eyes widened as they landed on his. He was scowling now, gripping the bedrails on either side of him and she felt a thrill of fear shoot through her. She never realized it before but he scared her terribly. Maybe that's why she enjoyed playing with Chase. Because for all his similarities to House, he doesn't scare her. At least not on purpose. And her breath hitched because she realized it was true. For all her assertions to the contrary, she was playing with Chase and she enjoyed it. She's done the same to House, the dots connected to say, recalling the date she mandated he take her on years ago. She wonders now if this...something...she wasn't even aware of is the real reason he hired her. She's sure she couldn't be the _only_ pretty doctor he's ever hired. Hell, Chase was proof enough of that and House's blatant joking with Wilson regularly leaves half the hospital wondering if there's ever been something going on between them. But she pushed that all aside for now as those cold, sunken eyes bore into hers.

Then he exhaled and sank back into the pillow, as though that small show of dominance took whatever he had left in him.

"What the hell do you want to do with your life?" House asked, the words barely forming themselves before toppling over the cliff of his mouth. "I won't let you marry me; I don't care if I'm dying."



Cameron flinched slightly before balling her fists. "So. What makes you think--"

"You said he had thyroid cancer. Your husband. It metastisized to his brain. You shoved that down our patient's father's throat--don't tell me you're not willing to play the 'Poor Dead Husband, Oh Woe Is Me' card if you see an opportunity. I've seen you do it for years now--hell, even you didn't realize it. I have cancer, I'm dying. Please don't fall in love with me. Save us both the aggravation."

Cameron felt Cuddy's eyes on her, certain that--whatever House liked to tell her about herself and her colleagues--this didn't previously fit the description. She fought the urge to bite her lip and remembered their discussion the night she told him she was resigning to save them all from Vogler. He'd seen it for the ploy it had been then, but had allowed her to float on its meager updraft for a while. They'd had their dinner and she'd watched as he squirmed like worm on a hook for two hours with his ridiculously knotted tie before finally deciding that it wasn't worth it. He was, she knew, but she had wondered if she had been. She still didn't know the answer.

House and Cuddy were staring at her and Cameron felt the urge to fidget, feeling as though House were seeing her every thought and trying desperately to make them as opaque as she could manage.

He gave her a level look. "Anyways...Your fellowship? Do you still want to go to Penn?"

She exhaled sharply and jerkily nodded 'yes.' "Yeah..." she got out and he let her go. They never said goodbye and Cuddy didn't mention it.

_...Wake up now, it's over...Just tell me it's okay to die..._

Chase was settled in the chair now, unshaven and wearing black and grey and House was faintly surprised that he'd managed to more or less match, but more unsettled by the grey circles under his fellow's eyes--even more by the visible dusting of beard growth on Chase's face. The clothes moved with Chase as he shifted slightly, casting odd angles of light from the lamp over House's bed and bringing hidden pockets into faint relief. There's the slight dampness of a recent coffee stain just under Chase's fourth button and his nails, usually filed neatly if nothing else, have been picked horribly, leaving the edges raw and disturbed. There's a waterproof Band-Aid on the side of his right thumb cuticle where his fellow clearly drew blood. Chase hasn't changed clothes in at least two days and hasn't eaten or slept in longer. There was a smudge of ink around the left side of his mouth where he seemed to have bitten through a pen (and it was weird because he'd never been distracted enough to do that before) while attempting one of his crossword puzzles that he never finished--House was the one who did that, filling in the gaps left by Chase's blue inkpen with black ballpoint--going over everything and obliterating Chase's mark with his own. Maybe he wanted to provoke Chase to try and climb out of his shadow. Maybe he just did what he always does and tried to piss Chase off. But the Prettiest One has never risen to the bait despite having plenty of reason and that fascinates him more than anything. He still wonders what it would take to get Chase to snap. But he knows he doesn't want that. He's never wanted to change any of them. They're of no use to him or to anyone else if their spirits are bloodied and beaten, trampled like so much garbage.

He pushes them, like he does everyone, but unlike his father, unlike Rowan Chase, he never wanted anything in them to break. He wanted to make them shape their own horizons, make them splatter paint and ruin brushes and stain delicate cloths. He didn't want a likeness, he wanted an impression. Better yet, an invention. A newness. He didn't know for the life of him if he's succeeded and he was almost reluctant to find out.

_...But honesty doesn't fit so well on you, sometimes you just can't take it..._

It had only been four days and House felt his already twitchy stomach lurch unpleasantly. He didn't want to know how Chase will be in six months. In a year. He didn't want to think about it, so he wouldn't.

"It'll be okay," He told his longest-surviving fellow and the quiet chuff (and glance, he knew, from Cuddy) he got in return let him know that Chase didn't believe him. He didn't say anything else; just glanced as quickly as he could at Cuddy and watched as Chase's eyes didn't leave the floor when she got up and left them to each other.

"Your dad made a phone call," he said, plainly and Chase's entire body tensed, his eyes hardening at whatever transfixed them on the floor. "He didn't want me to hire you--said I'd be wasting my time."  


Chase's right hand came to take hold of his left ring finger, a fresh hangnail for him to take out his frustrations on, and soon blood slid down the side of his finger. House frowned as he watched Chase flinch and stare down at his finger before shifting again, rummaging in his lab coat for a swab, rubbing harshly at the cut and hissing quietly before opening a new Band-Aid and covering the wound, wrapping it too tightly at first before peeling back the soft material and repositioning it to favor circulation.

"You didn't listen to him," Chase's roughened voice asked, his accent more prominent and a break in the middle like what happened whenever he tried to pretend he didn't care about the answer to something.

"Hindsight says no, I did not," House Pointed Out the Obvious™ and Chase held back some sort of laugh. Chase's mouth opened and closed, like he wanted to ask a question (House had a faint suspicion which one) but seemed to think the better of it.

"You finished here a long time ago," House said quietly, watching as Chase's brows furrowed. "You should have left a long time ago. I can't do anything else for you--even if I had more time. You're...whatever you're going to get."

Chase's eyes flickered up again, finally catching his, and his fellow frowned. "Are you firing me?" The words sounded broken, hollow.

"Two words I didn't say, Chase...'you're' or 'fired'. Go buy a pair of listening ears. Or borrow someone's. Hell, steal them for all I care, but for God's sake if you're going to break into my apartment again, don't...wear..._orange_..." he takes a minute to catch his breath, but he can't and he starts to cough. Chase is at his side in an instant, picking up the glass of water Cuddy poured him after his parents went to dinner. He takes a few sips and feels Chase's stethoscope on his back, the cold sharp like the angles in his skin and Chase's wrinkled clothes. He hasn't gone home, House thinks, or maybe he didn't want to leave it--their twisted little niche the only physically real home either he or Chase have ever had. It wasn't House's business to kick him out of the nest. Particularly not when he was going to be so unceremoniously booted, himself.

"Write up a really good paper...make it look like you haven't had...your thumb up your ass for seven years. Give me something to read for a few months. Get it published in whatever specialty rag you please...And when Cuddy calls you, try to _act_ like you haven't been nipping at my heels, got it? This isn't Texas, we're not in oil...and you won't be running my life's work into the ground...got it, Junior? Don't start any wars you don't feel like finishing. Now get out."

The shock on Chase's face is priceless and House doesn't think the kid even realizes he's just been compared to George W. Bush. If he does, Chase doesn't seem to care. House closes his eyes and pretends not to hear Chase's harsh breath as he leaves.

_...I can't be who you are..._

Foreman watched as Chase came out of House's room, noting the pale, shocked expression on his colleague's face. "What happened?" he asked, but Chase just shook his head, running a hand through his hair and going to sit on the bench located nearest them. Foreman watched as Chase slid down onto the hard plastic, his hand coming up to crush his face as shudders began to wrack his body. Foreman stared, on the one hand wanting to spare his colleague whatever dignity he had and the other morbidly fascinated. He didn't get a chance to ask again because two seconds later, House was calling his name and when he returned, Chase was gone.

**Three Days Later**

Wilson waited until House was asleep and stabilized. He'd insisted on trying to down some cantaloupe or something, ignoring Wilson's admonishments and glaring mutinously as Wilson injected the Compazine the second he'd started to gag. House knew Wilson wanted to ask what he'd told his fellows and part of him worried he was provoking abdominal spasms just to get out of talking, but decided it wasn't worth the effort of arguing. He simply watched House drift off to sleep, wondering idly if House's mother was going to pull rank the way she had the last time. It had been imminent, he knew, he and Cuddy having both successfully avoided her for two and a half straight days, but karma said that a clash was coming. Sighing, he went to his bag of scrubs (this time his own) and borrowed House's bathroom to change into them before coming out and 

folding himself into the chair Lisa had vacated earlier. It had been decided between the three of them that Wilson and Cuddy would take turns watching over House during the weekend. House and Cuddy had successfully railroaded his parents into each starting an Ativan regimen because, particularly in John's case, they simply weren't sleeping like they should have been and it was beginning to take a toll. John had been on the verge of protesting for a moment when Blythe had gripped his arm, accepting the samples Lisa had offered, saying they'd be hypocrites and that they should trust them to take care of Greg. It had been those words, an inadvertent knife in Wilson's heart, that had John agreeing at last.

"First order of business," Lisa had told him the moment it was clear Greg's parents were gone. "You _both_ get some sleep."

Wilson had been on the edge of protesting, but Lisa had poked him squarely in the chest, sending him reeling and her eyes on him had settled the matter. He had persisted to glare at her, but she hadn't budged, clearly threatening to knock him down again. Sighing roughly, Wilson threw himself into the chair as hard as he could without making a noise. Then he noticed Lisa staring at him with tears starting in her eyes and he was afraid he'd been the reason why.

"Lisa," he whispered carefully, glancing quickly at House to make sure he was now under the full effects of the medication. "I'm--"

"Just like him?" Lisa asked, a little hitch in her voice. "Gee, I never noticed."

Wilson frowned and peered at House, blinking and glancing at Cuddy. "His scrubs have been changed again. His sheets, too."

"He vomited again tonight after you took his parents down to dinner. Wilson...why isn't House on antiemetics? It's not even in his chart that he's _had_ any." Lisa blinked, sitting up straighter and watching Wilson's face as he stared at House's sleeping form, a trembling, sad sort of anger coming to crumple his face for a moment before he fought it down.

"I asked Coopersmith at Mass Gen if House has been getting any treatment there--asked that very same question. He says they tried to get House admitted. He refused. Had himself discharged AMA. He refused everything, even the Compazine I've had to shove down his IV tonight. They wanted to do the resection he wants me to help plan right then and there."

Wilson smirked bitterly, flinging a hand forward at House's bed. "He refused. Threw his cane at their window and put a nice, shiny crack in it. The only reason they got that CAT scan done at all was because House's legs gave out and he fell and hit his head on the exam table. He was out cold and couldn't object."

"You're his proxy," Cuddy whispered, her eyes glued to the face of the sleeping man before her. "He's incapacitat--"

"You think I'm still his proxy now?" Wilson hissed and Cuddy flinched, sending waves of guilt through him. "I...I'm sorry. N-no, I'm not House's proxy anymore. He went to...somewhere...and had his papers redrawn. He...I don't think he has one anymore. And they didn't send you his results..."

"Because I'm no longer his physician of record," Cuddy sighed, her fingers coming to cover her face, followed by the heels of her palms as she pressed them into her eyes.

"He...he _knew_ this was all going to happen," Wilson whispered, blinking past the burning feeling coming back yet again. "He wanted to make sure he was dead by the time we pulled our heads out of our asses. He was sick of waiting for everyone--for _us_ to catch up. Sick of needing us to in the first place."

Wilson didn't look at Cuddy, then--he couldn't--but he could hear the strained suppression of her sobs. Could feel her shudders in every bone in his body. He knew they were his, too.

_...The lights go down, outside before our cars collide...So we silhouette ourselves in forty sheets of fire..._

Chase sat in the corner of his bedroom, maroon tangles of bedsheets and blankets swathed around his legs. The apartment he'd been forced to rent after his father died was roughly the size of someone's basement, the consequence of which being that his bedroom was a fraction of that. His king-sized bed, among other things, had been 

placed in storage and he'd had the idea at the time that some day he'd make enough to get it all back out again. For now, though, he made use of pillows, blankets, and had fashioned something like a nest in the middle of the piles of medical texts and supplies all over the room. Cameron had never been here, preferring to go to her own apartment for their...whatever they'd been. He hadn't minded. The idea of trying to explain his nest or why he didn't just buy a smaller bed or sleep on his couch wasn't something he felt up to. _Besides_, he reasoned with himself. _It's...none of their bloody business_ where _I sleep. I certainly don't care. I'm asleep. I won't care until I'm not asleep anymore and even then..._

Chase frowned, rolled his eyes, and scanned the pad propped up on his knees. His pajama pants were starting to bunch up around his ankles and he straightened them again, rubbing the irritated skin there and wondering if the hems of trousers or socks ever made anyone _else_ he knew itch. Dismissing the ridiculous thought, he stared at the pad, forcing himself to take the words in. Ideas for the thesis he would present to House and Cuddy as a presentation of things he'd learned in his fellowship as a diagnostician in combination with his gravitation toward the discipline of neonatal intensive care.

**Fetus in fetu** _Diagnosis in prenatal context--possible resolution in utero_

**Conjoined twins** _craniopagus, pygopagus, dicephalus--_ dicephalus tetrabrachius?_--omphalopagus, etc. Parasitic. Treatment of comorbid disorders, complications._

He adjusted the headphones on his ears, glad that he'd turned his phone off if not his pager, and let Radiohead filter over his auditory nerves, soothing many more.

_Drag him out your window, dragging out the dead..._

He looked down at the yellow legal paper and flipped to a new page on impulse. This one was written in red fine-tipped Sharpie.

**Reasons Why House Sucks**

_Termi--_ he flinched at the word he'd been about to use before scowling and thinking that House would berate him for dodging the issue. _Terminally cranky_

_Unpredictable_. That one was subtitled _Cannot speak Housian._ As an afterthought, he added, _Or Wilsonese, for that matter. Each other's Babelfish. Cuddy's, too, sometimes._

_Sick sense of humour._

_Possibly psychotic._

_Case is everything. Trumps eating, sleeping,_ BATHING.

STILL _cannot figure out religious leanings. Or logical ones. Or recreational._

_Spanks at just about everything. And knows it._

Chase nibbled absently at the push button on the top of the Sharpie before switching to a more benign color for the new list. Green. No, green _and_ blue. Alternating. This one seemed to go in reverse order of the first.

**Reasons Why House Doesn't Suck**

_Doesn't_ rub in _that he spanks at everything. Find out by accident. Watch him squirm for two seconds before saying he_ is _that good._

_Demands our best--envision wildlife, not domestication._ PROVE _you're right. Don't just assume as much. You are_ not _that good. Yet._

_Sick sense of humour, even better sense of timing._

_Patient before personal life. Personal life will outlive patient otherwise. You won't outlive your shame. 'Quit', 'give up', 'resign' no longer allowed in dictionary. He will check._



Chase bit his lip, something House told him back when Foreman had just started coming to him. _What's the point of a personal life if you're too ashamed to mention your professional one to whoever you're trying to score with?_

Was he ashamed? Chase smiled, then, and looked at the page for a moment before writing.

_**NO SHAME.**_

_Extremely patient. Getting sued? Minor inconvience, so long as the case is solved._

He lifted the mug of coffee he'd brought home from the hospital earlier in the evening. Then another laugh leaked out as he remembered from whom the bag had originated.

_Awesome taste in coffee. Doughnuts, too. Food, in general (though what going with what is questionable--suspect pica). Refuses to eat shit. Spoils us silly._

_Brilliant taste in music._

_Ego_ not really _size of all outdoors._

_Definitely not boring._

_Discreet and honourable._

He remembered House's eyes on him earlier that night, appraising him and, though it wasn't obvious, assessing the injuries he'd done himself over the last week. The flash of relief that had passed over those eyes when he'd sterilized and bandaged his finger hadn't registered with him until he'd finished wiping his face in the bathroom across the hall. He looked at his finger now, rubbing the threaded texture of the Band-Aid and feeling the tears come back, reinforcing what he'd first realized that night in House's office when Chase had hugged him and House had asked quietly if he was crying. House hadn't mocked him when he'd so obviously lied. Strengthening what he'd told Foreman earlier in the week as they'd stared at House's test results with dread with the beginnings of loss creeping through their veins like the blood those sensations had replaced.

He hasn't slept or shaved in four days and he wondered if any of the others had. He scrubbed his hand over his face, his unbandaged palm lingering over where he'd cut himself shaving that morning. After two false starts, he'd forgone it completely. The downy growth on his chin now slid smoothly over his skin and he sighed, confused over whether or not he seemed to be stepping into House's oh-so-comfortable Nike Shox (and not the pair that Foreman had so obviously bought two seconds after House had first worn his). More intrigued over whether or not the idea truly bothered him.

_Believes in me. In my potential._

_**A father to me. The only parent I've ever known.**_

Chase blinked as a droplet hit the page and stared at the small, but spreading blotch for a moment before swiping at his eyes with his sleeve and recalling their conversation from the previous week.

_"I won't leave before I'm ready. If that was the case, I'd've died before we ever met."_

_"You'll leave before_ I'm _ready," he'd breathed, another tear escaping before his hand could swipe it away._

_"But you'll be prepared," House had muttered, trying to make his resolve plain. "I promise. I won't lie to you like that."_

And if there was one thing Robert knew, his father didn't tell real lies. He leaned forward onto his knees and bowed until his hair skirted the blankets beneath him, 

words coming unbidden in urgent request.

"_Pater noster, qui es in caelis:  
sanctificetur Nomen Tuum;  
adveniat Regnum Tuum;  
fiat voluntas Tua,  
sicut in caelo, et in terra.  
Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie;  
et dimitte nobis debita nostra,  
Sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris;  
et ne nos inducas in tentationem;  
sed libera nos a Malo._

_Annuo meus patris, Gregory, ineo tui regnum;  
Si vis, id annuo laxamentum;_

_In Nominae Patris, et filli, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen._"

Chase let himself fall to his side, staring at the ceiling until dawn.

_...When you feel embarrassed, I'll be your pride...When you need directions, I'll be the guide...For all time...For all time..._

...TBC...


	9. Chapter 9

**Disintegration**  
_By Angelfirenze_

**Disclaimer:** Shore, Jacobs, Singer, et al., own almost everything. Carter (that sadist), and Night Shyamamalan own everything else, specifically a deleted scene that I wish hadn't been cut. The lyrics belong to various bands. PLEASE let the writers prove they haven't all gone crazy. crosses fingers and hopes really, really hard

**Summary:** "I don't feel any different," he whispered, the lump in his throat from before he entered this office feeling like his throat was closing up.

**Pairings:** House/Cuddy, eventually. nods

**Rating: R** for Smut Tuesday because I haven't participated in a long time and while I am working on 'Excuse' again, I got an idea for this one, too.

**Inspiration:** Some of John's memories were inspired, partially -- okay, completely which I guess makes it a crossover -- by Catcher in the Rye--I hope it will make sense to anyone who's read that book (because I've had this idea for a very, very long time) and wondered if I could find a way to make it work somehow. _American Beauty_ as the characters' habits, personalities, and other things gel wonderfully, I think. The episode 'The Sixth Extinction II' from The X-Files.

Reviews are always encouraged and appreciated.

_...When this began I had nothing to say and I'd get lost in the nothingness inside of me..._

Chase wandered into the chapel the next morning, certain that he was going to be the only one there. It was just after six a.m. and most people didn't come in until at least seven when the nurses began making rounds. The sight of John House blessing himself before slowly rising into a standing position was a bit of a shock. Apparently, John House didn't expect him to be there, either, because the older man momentarily froze after turning and noticing him there. Chase took a breath and decided to ignore him, walking up to the altar and blessing himself before kneeling to say a sacrament. He repeated the entreaty he'd made earlier that morning and blessed himself again before rising, fully expecting that John House would have left. Instead, the Marine was staring at him with a transfixed sort of expression on his face where he stood in the middle of the aisle. Chase suddenly felt rather self conscious, wanting more than a little for House's father to stop staring at him.

"You were prayin' for Gregory," John told him and for a moment Chase felt a bit of indignant offense on House's behalf. But then he realized he recognized the look on John House's face. It was the same one House got whenever someone performed some behavior or other that he didn't understand. It was a bit jarring seeing it on a man who, in most respects, looked nothing at all like his son. He took another breath and decided to go sit down on the front pew. After a moment's hesitation, John House joined him.

"So were you," Chase whispered, not exactly sure why he was doing so. He was always quiet in the chapel, but this was bordering on clandestine.

"Yeah, well..." John sighed and let his hands land on his knees. "I always had the idea that you sort of hated Greg."

"So did I," Chase muttered before he could stop himself.

John's stricken expression at his words was something else he hadn't expected. Then he sighed and Chase was surprised to see him run his hands over his face. "I don't think you're the only one. Lisa and Wilson certainly think so." Then Chase watched as John House shuddered and shook his head. "You called him your father. And you meant it...you look at him like a father. You love him like one, too."

John House gave him another, softer look of confusion.

Chase sighed. "He's the only person who's ever been like that for me. He cared more about me than...the adults who raised me...ever did. I'm not here as a representation of his ego. I'm not an accident or a burden. I'm not passively hated. When I screw up, I get punished, but then he forgives me. And it's never mentioned again. It's over."

John flinched at that, frowning miserably. "I never hated him. He was...he _is_ perfect. I'm the idiot who never told him so."  


Chase didn't know what to say about that so he didn't say anything. He let his eyes rise to the ceiling and his head fall back, saying nothing.

"How long have you been here now?" John House asked, a bossy sort of curiosity in his tone. Chase believed the colonel didn't know how to ask a question any other way.

"Seven years in December," Chase answered, the realization that he's been here that long just coming to him. House's father gave a little chuckle.

"So you were just a kid when we met ya. Wow. I take it ya didn't expect to be here right now."

"Um..." Chase blinked before smiling despite himself. "Er...no. I...don't actually know why I'm still here."

John House gave him a questioning look, then, and Chase wanted to squirm but managed to abstain. "You thought you'd quit?"

Chase felt his eyes widen and shook his head. "No. I...I..." he sighed. "I thought House would fire me."

Then he remembers what House told him the night before about his father's phone call. "I don't know if he should have or not." He bit his lip, frowning now. "I remember the last time you came to visit. I didn't see you or your wife because I was in surgery, but I remember how Cameron kept trying to dig up information about you. She asked me wasn't I curious about you."

Chase snorted at the surprised look on John House's face. He watched as the other man's brow furrowed and then he ran a hand through his hair.

"I...well, no, I didn't tease him. I made fun of Greg for not telling her anything about us. I'm guessin' you didn't tell her anything."

Chase frowned at John House's admission of mocking his son. "No, I didn't. It was none of her business. She...kept prying." Chase scowled then. "I told her I was curious about crocodiles, but I don't stick my head in their mouths. She didn't get the hint." Then he turned to face John House.

"And neither did you, apparently." He wasn't sure exactly how to convey what he felt, but he figured he owed it to House to at least try. "He works harder than anyone in this whole place. Did you know that?"

Then he thought for a moment. "Except maybe Cuddy. But that's only because she's working so hard to keep him. Wilson, too. Everyone thinks he's such a jerk--thinks he hates everyone and doesn't care about anything just because he won't kowtow to them. They want their--" He flinched and glanced around, blessing himself because he suddenly remembered he was on consecrated ground. He sighed and continued.

"My father told him not to hire me. He hired me exactly for that reason. My father who never cared about me one way or another. I was nothing to him. He came here, knew he was dying. I found out three and half months later when my stepmother called to tell me he was dead. House didn't do that to me." He glared at John House then, seeing shades of Rowan Chase in those green eyes, turning away and standing up to pace. He stopped and scowled down at John House. "He knows how that feels. To be nothing."

_...You were just like me with someone disappointed in you..._

John stared at the young man before him, guilt flooding through him again despite everything he'd been told. He bit his lip and dragged a hand through his hair again. "Ah...look, I...I'm not tryin' to make excuses--"

"Good," Chase snapped, turning back around to face the elder House. "Because there aren't any." Chase frowned, feeling his eyes begin to burn again. John House's eyes were widening and Chase was struggling to breathe past the lump in his throat. "Not for my parents and not for you. Not when we loved you even though you couldn't return the favor."

He was breathing raggedly now, his stomach feeling like someone had kicked it. "He's the only one who ever gave a damn about me and now--"

"Chase!" Foreman's voice echoed through the chapel, startling them both. Chase sucked in a breath and swiped his arm across his face as Foreman strode closer, feeling the tears soak into the 

wrinkled cloth before whipping his arm down. "Chase, House said..."

Foreman's voice petered out as his eyes took in what Chase was sure was a strange scene. He stared for a moment before blurting out whatever he'd come to say. "I was doing a draw for House's Tegretol levels--he said he wanted you to talk to Cuddy soon about some paper and whether or not you wanted your name on the door. He said he wanted me to remind you about it."

Chase flinched, still angry and now feeling distinctly violated. "Don't worry about it. It doesn't matter. And he's probably medicated into oblivion."

_...Fractured lies dissolving like sugar in the sacrament..._

"No, he isn't and like that's ever stopped him before," Foreman scoffed for a second before the very look Chase dreaded landed on his face with all the subtlety of a chunk of concrete. "_House_ is giving _you_ the...he's recommending _you_ as replacement Department Head of Diagnostics?"

Chase felt cold anger slam onto his face and sure enough Foreman blanched a bit. "Want to be a bit louder? I'm sure Cuddy, Wilson, and House's mum didn't quite hear you. And--hey, look--House's _dad_--whose son is dying!"

_And me,_ he amended mentally, the cannonball digging in further. _My father is dying._

"I'm sorry," Foreman said after a beat and Chase watched as John House took a shaky breath. "I didn't mean..."

"It's fine," John House said abruptly, his tone shaky. "You said you did some kind of test on Greg?"

Chase breathed then, secretly grateful John House had changed the subject. Foreman began to give him some shallow explanation and he took the opportunity to leave.

_...Please don't go crazy if I tell you the truth...No, you don't know what happened and you never will..._

John returned to Gregory's room a few minutes later and immediately felt his heart lunge into his throat. Gregory was sitting on his bed, holding a very bloody tissue to his lip and trying weakly to get his mother to stop fussing at him.

"Mom, it's _fine_--I'm just a little anemic! The bleeding won't kill me!"

"There's nothing _fine_ about being anemic, Gregory," Blythe snapped and John could hear the fear in her voice as Gregory pressed the tissue further against his lip to stop the spreading flow of red slowly engulfing the thin paper and scowled, which made it worse.

"Dad, get Evil Nurse Brenda--Nurse Previn. She's out in the hall in report. Tell her I need clotting factor added to my IV and a washcloth for my face. I look like I've been in a bar fight." More blood slid down his chin and Greg swiped at it with more tissues before his mother could touch him. "I've obviously lost."

John felt the breath rush back into his lungs at Greg's small joke and tried to smile a little. "I'm sure you put up a good fight. I think you should tell her--you know what you're askin' for."

Greg blinked and sighed, then, pulling the tissues away from his mouth and grabbing several new ones to replace them with. He went to toss the soiled ones in the wastebasket, but Blythe took the tissues and threw them away herself. Greg sighed and leveled a tired stare at his father.

"Okay, just...hurry before Mom has a stroke. We don't want that."

John could see Greg's body bending forward in exhaustion and thought of the discussion he'd heard between his son's fellows down in the chapel.

Dr. Chase's words floated through his memory (the dark circles under his eyes and tight frown he'd worn, the grief that rose from him like a cloying mist of despair) as he went outside to summon the nurse at the desk and tried to tell her what was wrong with Greg. She took one look at him before walking over to shelves behind her and grabbing an IV bag with clear yellowish liquid in it and a couple of washcloths. She led the way into Greg's room and paused to stare at him when she saw him there in the bed.

"Having fun, Tripod?" she asked, raising an eyebrow as she went to the sink and moistened one of the towels with warm water. Greg made a face and a petulant sounding noise, gesturing at his mouth with a muttered, "What...the hell...do you think?" as she passed one of the towels to Blythe, telling her his lip needed constant pressure. Greg started to protest and the nurse cut him off. "I have to give you your hemoglobin, don't I? Your mom's freaking out and you know it--if it were her, you'd do the same thing. Tell her about that idiot last year who managed to damned near castrate himself. Completely mangled his foreskin? You had that bout of hay fever from Hell..."

"Argh," Greg moaned, clenching his eyes shut as Blythe looked at him, a small smile coming to her face as Greg began complaining through the towel muffling his speech. "Dat m'ron. Ha'f the poin' o' havin' a penis is to have sex with it. It make no sense to heck it apar' in an effor' to gah laid." Greg sighed, leaning into the warmth of the new washcloth as Blythe dunked the old one into the basin of water the nurse had provided. John noticed that she'd calmed down considerably and was even beginning to laugh a little as Greg told her the idiot's explanation.

"'M-my girfend's ne'er been wi' a guy who wasn' cir'umcised an' so she f'eaked an' then I went an' got a _box 'utter_--'"

"What?!" John broke in, then, and both Nurse Previn and Blythe chuckled at him.

"Tha's wha' I said," Greg said, flinging his hands up a few inches before they fell heavily to the bed. He was starting to fall asleep again.

"Af'er I finis'ed...sc'eaming in 'orror, an'way...I to'd 'im it...wass jus' like Ab'aham did it. I to'd 'im...that a p'astic surgeon could...put his T'inkie back in...'is wrapper. Then there wass tha' girl...who t'ought sperm'cide je'y came from the groc'ry store."

"What?" Now it was Blythe's turn and Nurse Previn cackled loudly, clearly remembering what he was talking about.

"Sm'ckers in 'er vagina, Mom. Vag'nosis. To'd her she an' her sel'ish jer' o' a boyfriend--wo'ldn' wear a co'dom...never 'ave kids. Da'win's 'Aw 'ill take care o' the rest."

Blythe closed her eyes, a faintly nauseated look coming over her face as she opened them again to check whether Greg's lip had stopped bleeding yet. The bleed seemed to have stopped, so she wrung the towel out in the water basin again and gently cleaned what was drying on his face before it could begin sticking to his skin.

"His lip should scab over within the hour," Nurse Previn said quietly, noticing that Greg was asleep once more and coming to take the basin and towels away, leaving glycerin swabs in her wake. "These swabs should help keep his lips from cracking too badly again. I'll be back later."

"Is it always like that down there?" John asked, wondering what sorts of psychos they had to contend with in the clinic every day.

"Pretty much," Nurse Previn told him, a small grin on her face. "Which is why Dr. Tripod there is always ducking duty. I think it's a fair trade. At least he can't get sued for calling them morons if he won't see them. I remember the time he diagnosed the whole waiting room on the way out the door...the look on our Fearless Leader's face..."

She was clearly amused and John watched her leave with a bit of a smile on his face.

_...Show the world that they were wrong and teach them all to sing along..._

Chase sat in the Diagnostics conference room, staring at the packed box of Cameron's things across from him and seeing random little things that he recognized from her locker--her Walkman headphones that were probably connected to her CD player. The slightly wrinkled edge of her lab coat. It was early morning outside and he resented every inch of sun that rose on the horizon.

Scowling viciously, he clicked the end of his ink pen and tossed it on the table, getting up and going out to take the elevator to the first floor. He had a decent start on his outline regarding the thesis and figured that he'd be able to better concentrate if he had some idea of House's condition at the moment. Dr. Wilson was sequestered in his office next door, only venturing out to treat inpatients and snapping at the more clueless med students who asked where Dr. House was. Chase could hear Led Zeppelin pounding from the other side of the door and had decided not to court danger today. In his current frame of mind, Dr. Wilson might even be compelled to throw heavy objects and Chase didn't feel like being on the receiving end of a paperweight- or Zen 

garden-shaped hole in his face. So that left Cuddy. Chase at least hoped she was more amiable at the moment given the circumstances and couldn't see his way around testing his hypothesis. Part of him wondered what would happen if he simply barged into her office, but then sanity won out and remembered the chances of flying paperweights. It's not the first of the month or a Tuesday so the usual distractions of donors weren't going to be a problem. He didn't think they'd be, anyway.

He took a deep breath and knocked on her door. There was the soft sound of something flopping to the floor and a muttered curse before the shuttered office door opened and Chase peeked in. Dr. Cuddy was dressed in her scrubs from the night before, a barely picked at salad at her desk. The dean herself was eyeing him crossly.

"This had better be good, Chase," she warned, barely bridled irritation plain in her voice. Chase felt his mouth open and closed it, running a hand over his hair and waiting as Dr. Cuddy sat back at her desk, glaring at paperwork as though it had done her a personal wrong. In this instance, Chase found himself in agreement with her.

"Dr. Cuddy, I...House--" he glanced behind him and noticed the door was still partially open. He strode quickly over and closed it, turning back to face her and choosing to ignore the smoldering vitriol he could see rising to the surface. "House talked to all three of us last night and...Foreman and Cameron...they're leaving."

Cuddy took a breath and sat back in her chair, nodding, tears coming to her eyes as the implications crashed over them again. "And you?"

Chase frowned a bit and stuck his hands in his lab coat, feeling out of place without something to occupy them with. "Er...no, I'm not."

"You're asking to be transferred to NICU full-time?" Cuddy asked, curiosity starting to overcome her vindictive mood.

"No, not that, either. Doctor...House...he suggested that I possibly apply--" Chase felt blood rushing to his face and wished he could just get the words out. "I think he might consider burning my resume." That seemed to be the closest he could come to actually saying it. He fervently hoped Cuddy understood what he was trying to explain.

"House recommended you for the Head of Diagnostics position?" The surprise in Cuddy's reaction didn't seem to be an incredulous one, though he might be mistaken. He certainly hoped not. "He wants you to succeed him?"

All Chase could do was nod. Cuddy watched him for a moment and Chase watched her back, dumbfounded and remorseful after a moment to see that tears were coming to her eyes.

"That's...that's great, Chase. I'm..." Cuddy sighed and got up from her desk, walking over to shake his hand before reaching out and hugging him. After another second's surprise, he cautiously returned the hug before stepping back to see those tears trailing down her face. "He's really proud of you, you know," Cuddy said, her voice unsteady like her hands. "Proud of how much you've accomplished, how much you've grown. As a doctor and as a man."

Chase stared now, completely taken aback. "He said that?"

Cuddy laughed a little, wiping at her eyes. "He wanted to buy you a subscription to some foreign porn magazine--that pervert. When I told him how horrible a gift that'd be, he insisted that even polyglots need love, too."

Chase felt a laugh bubble up, taking him by surprise. "I never told House about my languages."

Cuddy snorted then. "Oh, like that'd stop him. He says he's heard you swearing in Romanian, Czech, Portuguese, and Chinese. He thought the last one was particularly funny."

Chase blushed, feeling oddly caught out. "We like the same television show."

"Really," Cuddy smiled, seeming thoroughly unsurprised. "It seems the Firefly fans are converging on my hospital. Or maybe it's just my imagination."

"We--no," Chase grinned, blushing. "I don't think so. At least we haven't started any fan clubs that I know of. And there probably won't be any conventions held in the cafeteria."

"My sincere thanks. I've had enough space cowboys to last a lifetime, I think."

Chase nodded in agreement. "I wouldn't mind having a 3-D imager for full body scans, though. Those beat the hell out of MRIs."

"House already put one on his Christmas list. Then I reminded him that none of the three of us celebrate Christmas and he put hot sauce in my coffee. Bastard."

Chase laughed a bit, imagining House doing just that. Then he ran a hand through his hair and blinked, the sudden onslaught of fear and anxiety like a weight slowly beginning to crush him.

"I don't feel any different," he whispered, the lump in his throat from before he entered this office feeling like his throat was closing up.

"I...I can't do this. I'm not House. He's..."

Cuddy bit her lip as she watched Chase struggling to control the self-doubt she could see beginning to overwhelm him. She took gentle but firm hold of his shoulders and forced him to look at her. Chase stared at her in surprise, not expecting this at all.

"Robert Chase, if Gregory House chose you to run his department then he had a damned good reason. You're willing to take unconventional measures and do what needs to be done, no matter when others think or say otherwise. You're everything he hoped you'd become and most importantly, you've climbed out from not only Rowan Chase's shadow but his, as well. He knows that and he--and Wilson and I--are more proud of you than we can say. Out of the three of you, you alone been willing not only to bear the brunt of House's faked insults and teasing with a courage and most often a reply that he'd laugh at later. You made a mistake years ago and House punished you for that, but you accepted it without complaint and regained House's trust and, then, helped it grow. He regards you with a respect he can't seem to muster for the others."

She sighed then, and shook her head. "Foreman's pride will plague him for the rest of his life. He won't be objective and that will get in the way of any potential he's had. He's wasting it being vain and unjust, letting that pride directly affect his decisions on cases. Doctors can't afford to do that--let their vanity bury their willingness to help others for the sake of improving someone else's life. Their selfishness is legendary, as are their egos. It's despicable and something the rest of us are disgusted by."

_...I see nothing in your eyes and the more I see, the less I like..._

Dr. Cuddy now had a disdainful expression on her face that softened once more as she looked at him. "You, on the other hand, despite your shaky hold on your faith and courage, you still cling to it because to let it go would be a slight not only to what God is in your eyes, but to yourself, as well. House may be unable to truly believe in anything he feels uses him as a puppet, God included, but he hasn't let that stop him from being as good a man as he can be."

She smiled a bit, then, and said, "I truly believe that if he goes to yours and his father's Purgatory, it will be still be an account squared because despite that lack of true faith, he won't forsake the morals that have guided him even when he didn't realize it. He understands that he can't control everything, but he'll do his best not to fall into the trap of true lack of conscience, of apathy, or the ghosts of his past. People like Vogler and Tritter truly unsettle him for their complete disassociation with human nature and can only see their own goals, as twisted as they may be, choosing instead to pursue vendettas and battles for power they have no right to receive. Whether or not they're helping people doesn't occur to them."

Cuddy waved a hand at her office couch and invited Chase to sit down with her. He did so slowly, still quite nervous and Cuddy smiled again, more gently, trying to calm him down. "Chase...House may say that he hates people and wishes they'd all burn, but if you ever see him with young children or those deemed unfit by others, you can see how gentle and caring he can be. He's not a bastard and, whatever he may say, he loves his job--wants to help people--and would probably pitch a tent and live out the rest of his days in the middle of the lobby if he could. Though, the only reason I think he didn't become a forensic pathologist is that you can't lecture or prove something to a cadaver or a corpse. He loves proving people and their biases and petty assumptions wrong and, just between you and me, I say more power to him."

Chase laughed a bit before imagining a slightly disturbing vision of House in a red plaid shirt, sitting before a campfire and eating s'mores suddenly followed it and he couldn't figure out if he should laugh or banish the thought in horror.

Dr. Cuddy was still watching him, now with a wry smile on her lips. "Well, maybe not camp out, but he'd certainly stage another multi-office protest if it came to that. Clingy bastard."

This time they both laughed before Cuddy resumed speaking, her voice once again taking on a 

serious tone. "Dr. Cameron, on the other hand, is insecure and trying to make House into something he can't be. He is not a puppet or a toy and neither are you. One day, hopefully, she'll realize that has no right to infringe on the personalities or habits of others and it will give her nothing but grief if she continues. You and House didn't deserve the control she tried to exert over you both and she will have to learn that she cannot force what she wants or it will blow up in her face. House lied to her when she asked him why she hired him and I don't think she's ever realized the reason why she's here. Her willingness to do whatever necessary to achieve her goals would have been her greatest strength if she hadn't wasted it on futile desires and hidden agendas."

_...Forgetting all the hurt inside you've learned to hide so well...Pretending someone else can come and save me from myself..._

"For that, she doesn't deserve you, plain and simple. You are not perfect and you don't try to be. This is a good thing. What's not good is your tendency to doubt your abilities and not meet your own potential because you think that making waves with House or anyone else will only get you into trouble. This, more than anything, is what he'd like to help you change. You need to trust yourself and you should be able to trust those around you. You and House are more alike than either of you will ever know. He probably thinks this is a bad thing and wants to protect you from himself, but understand that those House cares about, he will defend at any cost, even if it results in what some would call disasters. A bigger disaster, in my eyes, would be to see him forsake his principles. He can't let himself do that, thank God, and oddly enough, his parents managed to teach him, above all else, that lies and disregard for your sense of right and wrong should never be compromised under any circumstances. He will never cave on that and neither will you. He believes in you and I know you know that. Now go do your damned job and make him even more proud."

_...Embrace myself and forgive what I've done..._

Chase stared at Dr. Cuddy, feeling the blood leave his face as surprise took over. Sighing to get himself under control, Chase decided to finally tackle the reason he'd come down here in the first place. He frowned and clenched his hands into fists.

"No one told me that Dr. House was going into surgery last night. No one so much as called me." He marveled at how calm his voice seemed to be despite the overwhelming hurt that threatened to return with every word he spoke. "I'm an intensivist--I work in the E.R. half the time when there's accidents and whatever the hell else. I should have been there." _I should have helped him. Maybe I could have done something Wilson didn't think of..._

Dr. Cuddy looked up at him, tears shining in her eyes, before placing a hand on his shoulder. Chase shrugged it off in favor of going to sit in the corner of her office next to the doors where no one could see him. "How much was removed?"

Cuddy could see his back and shoulders hitching and occasionally he'd swipe violently at his face, a large damp spot growing on his sleeve. Cuddy stared, unable to believe what she was seeing. Chase was _mourning_ House just like she, Wilson, and House's parents were. She watched him shudder, the occasional uncontrollable whimper issuing from the crumpled figure before her.

"Seventy percent of the largest tumor and all of the smaller second. We've bought him time, but we're unsure as to how much. He's still recovering in Post-Op with his parents if you want to go see him."

_Hold his hand,_ Cuddy thought, fighting the urge to cry, herself. _See that he's still real for now...James and I don't deserve to know._

_...Hey, the closer we think we are...well, it only got us so far...Now you got anything left to show...No, No, I didn't think so..._

"Why di'nt anyone call me?" Chase asked, his accent more prominent and full of sadness.

Cuddy took off her shoes and went to sit next to Chase, careful not to touch him this time. "House was seizing. He'd had at least three seizures in the span of two minutes. If we hadn't operated when we did, House would have descended into _status epilepticus_ right then and there. In his condition, it most likely would have been fatal. We had to perform a resection, removing as much of the tumors as we could."

Chase's head snapped up and he stared at Cuddy, his eyes widened. "Parts of them're still there?!" he whispered in disbelief. Dr. Cuddy nodded sadly. "He's starting chemotherapy tomorrow morning. Hopefully, that will buy him time until we can operate on the sections we couldn't get 

this time. I promise, Chase, Wilson and I will try to do any and everything to help House as much as we can. And like House told you, you _will_ be able to say goodbye. I swear."

Chase got up, dried his face in Cuddy's private bathroom, and left Cuddy's office. Time seemed to jump. He was leaving. Then, he was stepping numbly into scrubs in the locker room. Scrubbing up as though he were going into surgery. Entering the post-op recovery room and grabbing a chair. House's parents looked over at him and he tried to smile, hoping he didn't look too shaken. He turned the chair backwards, dropping onto and staring at House's pale face and arms before getting an idea.

"Um...I'll be right back," he said hurriedly before jumping up and leaving House's parents completely confused. Five minutes later, Chase returned with a black New York Yankees baseball cap.

"He hates baseball, but he likes to bet on them to lose. So far they've won him plenty of money from the other doctors here--the new ones and interns, anyway." Chase grinned at the way Blythe rolled her eyes.

Greg's head was covered in thick bandages and gauze, his head completely shaved because Wilson had known that he'd bitch and moan to no end about not being able to do shit with half a head of hair and what the hell are the brain docs thinking any-damned-way.

Chase asked Blythe and John House to very carefully lift Greg's head off the pillow. They'd been sterilized as though they were in a clean room to help spare Greg any chance of infection when they touched him.

Chase gingerly placed the now sterile cap on his head.

_...I am not afraid to keep on living...I am not afraid to walk this world alone...Honey, if you stay, you'll be forgiven...Nothing you could say would stop me comin' home..._

"I was just going to come in," Chase said softly. "But I couldn't find a tie to go with my victory cap." Chase smiled, yanking at each end of the imaginary tie he'd undone before looking back at House's parents, and was rewarded with more cluelessness.

"You know," he snarked playfully. "Living under a rock isn't really worth the money--I don't care how cheap the rent is."

House's mouth moved, then, and he licked his lips before trying to open his eyes. John and Blythe smiled down at him as Chase grinned and fought down the urge to laugh.

"Hi, House. In case you didn't catch that, I told your parents that the rock they're living under isn't cost-effective. They should move."

House smiled and blinked groggily. "Actu...all...y, been liv...ing on mil'tary bases...long time. Forget...Nyack...not one. Plus...kinda old..."

"Hey, look who's talking, Dr. I'll Be Fifty in a Year and a Half," John defended, pretending to be affronted.

"Says m...ore 'bout you than me," House murmured, a hint of a sleepy smile on his face. "Es'lly the 'art where you were married sev'l years 'fore I made me debut." House smiled with satisfaction.

"Oh, shut up, you little wiseass," John House said, but he was smiling. "I was twenty-five, thank you."

"Mom was nineteen. Cwadle wobber."

"I was not." John protested, but Greg clearly disagreed.

"Too youn' to consent."

"No, I was not," Blythe interjected, patting Greg on the arm. "That's seventeen or eighteen depending on where you live and you know it."

"It's fourteen in Icelan'," Greg said idly and made a lecherous face at his father, who rolled his eyes. Greg grinned as evilly as he could considering his heavily drugged state.

"Bet yer daddy came af'er Ol' Johnny here wit' a sho'gun, ready to blast a hole in 'im for darin' to touch his little--" he murmured and Chase bit his cheek, trying desperately to stifle his laughter.

"Oh, shut up," John grinned. "Her father wasn't the one I had to worry about. Her whole family was so damned protective. They'd've beaten me to death with a big, damned heavy book if they'd had a chance."

"An' you gave 'em one, didn'ja?" Greg asked, curiosity belying his sedation.

"Sadly to say, I did," John sighed, gripping Blythe's hand and kissing the top of her head. "Your uncle wanted to kill me."

"Which one?" Blythe asked, obviously not knowing anything about this.

"Holden. I was sorry I'd hurt your feelin's, but when you broke that door window leavin' his birthday party, he sent me the pieces sayin' if I ever hurt you again, I'd pay."

Greg, Blythe, and Chase stared at John, the former two obviously knowing nothing about this.

"When was that?" Greg asked, managing to shift up a bit further, intrigued now.

"The year you were born. Seven and a half months, actually. I guess I didn't think much of 'im at the time, but he loved your momma and hers and all the rest of them a whole lot. I think now that when they were all together was the only time he was happy. Kinda like you and your friends. Wilson and Lisa would do anything for ya. Wilson did your surgery. And Lisa sat out there with us. She told me just how sick you really are. I...I guess I didn't want to believe it. I wanted to believe you were happy. You wouldn't let me. You didn't want me in denial." And here, John sighed, his hand coming to his face, scrubbing over it to get rid of the tears that leaked out of his eyes.

"I'd trade places with ya--"

House blinked his glassy eyes and stared at his father. He reached out and grabbed John's free hand. "Don't you dare say that." Those blue eyes John had despised for so long were hard and clear now. "Not ever. Promise me you--neither of you will ever say that again."

Blythe bit her lip, wiping her eyes again with John's handkerchief and nodding wordlessly. John took a deep breath and squeezed Greg's hand as hard as he dared. "I promise."

Chase watched all this, wanting desperately to change the subject. To make them all laugh and feel better. To obliterate them with bright lights and make shapes with the shadows instead of hiding in them. "Hey, remember our patient who was on that swim team and needed a gurney to give her an LP and Foreman tried to cut the queue and Nurse Previn said, 'back of the line, arsehole.'"

House was clearly annoyed, "I tea' ya t' lie, chea', an' steal an' Foreskin waits in line? 'Diculous. Tha's why Evil Nurse B'enda locked 'im in morgue cab'net later. Or shou' 'ave. At leas' you an' the sw'tch-'itter know how t' brea' an' en'er. Foreskin shoul' be better. Needs more practice."

"You've been teachin' your students to break into people's houses?" John House asked, completely shocked.

"Fellows," House corrected, sighing faintly.

"And everybody lies," Chase told him, smiling at House, who went back to sleep.

**Thirty-seven hours earlier...**

Foreman walked into House's hospital room, dreading what was coming--what could happen. House was lying in his bed, watching curiously as his own fingers twitched and moved of their own volition. He looked fascinated more than anything else and Foreman felt his heart jump into his throat. He impulsively stalked over to House's IV pole and tried to ready an intravenous dose of Ativan, but House--still watching his hand--said in a quiet voice that he didn't want to be sedated.

"I can't talk to you if I'm completely unconscious and practically in a coma for the next day and a half. The whole time will complete blank be a and I generally like don't not remembering dreams my. Even if I wake up happy reasonably, it's no good don't remember if I the hell reason why." House's words were arranged out of order and Foreman didn't know if he even realized it. He watched as House's shoulder and arm began to twitch along with his hand and knew the seizure was 

starting to become generalized.

"You've stopped taking your meds, haven't you?" Foreman asked, not meaning to sound so accusing, but staring incredulously at House all the same. House looked at him and Foreman steeled himself for the insult he knew was coming, but House simply chuckled weakly and went back to watching his twitching right hand and arm.

"It's metastasizing, Foreman. Until removed it's, it to grow both on ends of my brain, not only on...pressing my parietal lobe, but the one temporal, too. What happens something when pressure to applies the temporal lobe, Foreman?"

Foreman sighed, frowning as House continued seizing and wouldn't let him do anything. If this went on any longer, he'd have to say to hell with it and sedate House anyway, just to spare him the chance of more damage. "The seizures that originate from the temporal lobe will remain uncontrolled and possibly cause brain damage if you descend into bouts of _status epilepticus_, which--given your condition--is altogether likely." He looked at House, confusion now evident on his face. "But you're not afraid of that."

"The themselves aren't seizures painful, as know perfectly you well. It's what happens screws with people before and after that. What those things are?"

Foreman wondered then if House was attempting quizzing him like his instructors had in medical school. He shot House an irritated look and answered with a slightly impatient tone. "There is usually a deeply unpleasant feeling beforehand known as an 'aura', though Fyodor Dostoyevsky reported euphoric feelings before his--possibly enhanced by the fact that the patient knows what's coming and is powerless to stop the neural onslaught. Afterward, the patient usually feels dazed and, in the case of a generalized seizure like the one your stubborn ass is about to have, falls into a deep sleep and often wakes up with a persistent headache that may be diagnosed as migraines. Why are you asking me all this?"

But instead of answering, House continued to watch his hand, now transfixed, his eyes unfocused and his breathing slowing considerably.

Foreman recognized the signs of an absence seizure and noticed House's left leg starting to twitch as well. House wasn't talking anymore and was sliding back against his pillows, his limbs all jerking at once.

"Goddamn it!" Foreman snapped, grabbing a mouth guard before cramming it into House's clenching mouth and injected the dose of Ativan into House's IV like he'd planned before House's absurd monologue. House immediately fell back onto the bed, his blankets and sheets twisted around his body almost like a toga. "Stubborn assed bastard," Foreman snarled before snatching up the phone and paging Drs. Wilson and Cuddy.

_...They're the kind that will talk though a wheezing of coughs..._

**Five minutes earlier...**

Wilson was sitting with House's parents, picking gingerly at a turkey sub before Blythe grabbed his hand and he looked up. "Eat, James. I know perfectly well that you haven't. After that, we can go back to see Greg and Lisa but, until then, you're not leaving this table. Understood?"

"Now I know why House insisted you're really a cunning mastermind using a facade of guile to gain our trusts before springing your trap."

John snorted as Blythe's eyebrow raised, "And what 'trap' would that be? Really, I'm curious."

Wilson smiled a bit, a little laughter in his voice. "The trap of motherly affection. No one would give that up. It's like mind control. You get to keep us in your clutches forever and ever."

Blythe smiled then, shrugging. "What can I say? My plan is a good one, wouldn't you say?"

Wilson offered a fake affronted look, then. "So! You admit your nefarious plans! That most evil and hypnotic of traps!"

John chuckled, shaking his head as he went to take in another mouthful of chili while awaiting his wife's answer.

"Shamelessly," Blythe smirked, raising an eyebrow. "And you can bet I'll tell Greg the same thing." Blythe laughed as John sighed and smiled and shook his head in amusement.

Wilson playfully stuck out his tongue at her before taking a real bite of the sandwich. He'd just begun to chew when his pager went off. Wilson unclipped it from his belt and glanced at it before beginning to cough and spitting out his half-chewed food. "Holy shit!" He yelled before jumping to his feet. "We have to go--House is seizing again--generalized."

Both John and Blythe got up, their meals forgotten as they all rushed out of the cafeteria and down the hall. Cuddy, now dressed in scrubs, was ahead of them. They all made it to House's room and saw that Foreman was four-point restraining House to his bed, soft blankets now covering the bed rails. House, himself, was lying on his back, deeply asleep. Wilson and Cuddy both rushed forward and Foreman moved aside before they could run into him. Wilson was clipping House's pulse oximeter back on his finger, quickly scanning to results after turning the machine back on. Wilson had a pretty good idea who had turned it off. House's airway was clear, it seemed, and he wasn't in danger of hurting himself or falling out of bed.

"What the hell happened?" John yelled, pushing his way into the room even as Foreman tried to keep him out. He took hold of Foreman's shoulders and shoved the younger man back, rushing to Greg's side and gripping one of the restraints. "Why the hell are you locking him up?"

"I immobilized your son because he halfway fell out of bed--the rails were down and I think he did that!" Foreman yelled, rubbing his left shoulder where John House had grabbed it more tightly. "House would have hit his head again!"

Blythe walked over to stand by Lisa, who was now listening to Greg's chest before inserting a little plastic tube with two prongs on it into Greg's nose. Greg vaguely tried to swat it away, but the restraints and sedation were taking a toll on him and his hand didn't make it more than a few inches before he was unconscious again. His parents both pulled chairs up to the side of his bed, watching as Lisa and Wilson placed Greg forward on his side, removing the pillows and tossing them aside. They next removed the blankets but left the sheets, pulling them up and covering Gregory up to his waist. Cuddy looked at Foreman and asked, "How much alprazolam did you give him?"

"Twenty milligrams," Foreman answered immediately. "He'd complained beforehand, saying he'll be unconscious for the next day and a half--his words were out of order, but I understood the gist of what was saying. The seizures are coming back. We have to do that resection now, I mean, right now."

Wilson hurriedly nodded and turned to grab the phone, pounding numbers and ordering one of the oncologists on call to prep an operating room right that moment. He slammed the phone back on the hook before turning to House's parents.

"We need you to move. He needs to be prepped and brought up to the third floor. You can follow, but you cannot enter the operating room with him. You won't be sterile and he'd be at risk for a severe infection, most notably _necrotizing fasciitis_, the flesh-eating disease. But, as House would be quick to digress and tell you, it doesn't actually eat flesh as cause it break down. As it is, you'll be permitted to wait in the hallway or the adjoining waiting room. We'll be removing as much of both tumors as we possibly can."

With that, the three doctors each took hold of House's body to transfer him to the gurney Foreman had procured from the hallway. The five of them all rushed to the third floor, John cursing under his breath that the elevators were too fucking slow. They reached the third floor and House was wheeled to the area outside the doors where an anesthesiologist was waiting and quickly covered House's face with the mask.

"What the hell are they doin' that for?" John snapped, beginning to pace. Wilson was now in scrubs and paper thin blue coverings, his hair under a cap with strings tying it to his head, standing at the sink in a room off the side of the operating room, smearing soap all over his arms and rinsing them off, holding them up before a nurse pulled long latex gloves over them and he walked into the OR.

Lisa turned to address John and Blythe both, her face pale and her eyes filled with unmasked concern. "We can't risk him waking up during the procedure. He'll wake up if he damned well wants to. He managed to upstairs, remember?"

John blanched and his face finally began to show a sort of vulnerability she'd never seen in him before.

Softening her voice, Cuddy continued,"If he wakes up then he might become agitated and try to get up. If he wanted to even with his leg the way it is, he could drag himself to Atlantic City if he tried hard enough, the determined jerk. We'd have to restrain him again and the surgery would be 

halted. We can't risk that at all. He's under the minimum of anesthesia because of the previous sedation, but any more might send him into a coma. Level three comas can be responsive, but level two and below would be complete unconsciousness. He might not wake up from that. As it is, we'll have to see if he wakes up on his own in post-op and if not, we'll have to induce a response to see if he can react. We need to keep him at level three if we want him to wake up."

"How would you do that?" Blythe asked, fear evident in her face and voice. She was holding John's hand in a death grip and he was concentrating on breathing normally, his eyes trained on the doors to the operation room his son had just been taken into. He glanced at Lisa when Blythe asked about how they'd wake Greg up after the surgery.

"Well, we use the Glasgow Coma Scale to measure response. One is completely unresponsive. Level one is what he's at now for the surgery and he'll wake up on his own afterward, in a state of level six afterward, which is grogginess, but that resolves itself with time. It's rather like taking a nap. If he descends too far, and becomes complete unresponsive again, we'd try gradually applying more pressure in various places to induce enough discomfort to wake him. The worst case scenario for that would be to do a sternal rub. That's a rather drastic measure and we want to avoid it if we can."

"What is that?" Blythe asked and John looked at Lisa, frowning deeply.

"Making fists and applying hard pressure to the middle of the chest where the sternum sits--the thick plate of bone that protects the heart and pericardial sac, which is the membrane that covers the heart--it's a last resort on unresponsive patients and usually rates as a three or four on the pain scale. Of course, Greg deals with a lot more than that on an everyday basis so his pain tolerance is much higher than most patients. If we did, there's a chance that Greg would only see it as a minor bother. The size of the bruise would probably annoy him, though."

She sighed as both House's parents stared at her with horror in their eyes. "Minor?" John asked and at this Lisa leveled him with a cool expression.

"Yes. Contrary to what you seem to believe, Greg's leg is permanently damaged by an injury to his middle cutaneous nerve with accompanying adhesions of scar tissue to his sciatic nerve in that leg, neither of which will ever heal."

She took a frustrated breath, knowing firsthand the pain that Greg has had to suffer all these years, with his father turning a deaf ear and blind eye to any idea that his son's life had been permanently altered, instead choosing to believe that Greg was wallowing in self-pity and that if he just _tried hard enough_ or had let his leg be amputated in the first place, then he'd be just fine. It was never that simple. Never that black and white and it was well past time John House learned that.

"Nerve damage doesn't heal. The only reason he does any physical therapy at all is to keep the range of motion he does have because extensive scars can bunch up and cause even more pain and his already compromised use of the remaining muscles his right leg would be completely destroyed. He needs to keep them flexible so he can walk as he does now. If his leg doesn't receive adequate blood flow, the rest of the leg would atrophy and he'd be in the same position he was the first time. Dying muscle leaks myoglobin and that's toxic to the kidneys. As he knows since he's a nephrologist, his kidneys have failed before and could always fail again."

Cuddy took another, deeper breath and continued despite the fact that everyone gathered was now staring at her in shock and abject dismay.

"His liver is also compromised by the amount of Vicodin he has to take daily because his pain level is so high. Right now he's been on morphine, which has arrested the pain so far, but he can't stay on that forever or he'd be addicted to that, too. Vicodin is a narcotic and, truthfully, the only reason we put him on was because there was no other option at the time."

John's face was white as a sheet now and despite her better inclinations, Cuddy felt a tiny amount of satisfaction on House's behalf.

"As it is, there might not even be one now. And he'll have to do chemotherapy after the resection to aggressively treat the tumors he already has in his brain and try to put him into remission. There are several things going on in Greg's body that could kill him. This wasn't something he chose to do."

And here, she felt her own voice take on a bitter, regretful tone. "If I recall correctly, he asked for the blockage in his leg to be removed, and only that, which left him in terrible pain but there was a chance he might be fine after it was over. But Stacy decided that after we put him in that coma until the pain wore off that since she was his medical proxy, it was her call 

and screw what Greg wanted. It's partly my fault because I was the one who suggested the debridement in the first place. Greg would probably tell me I was just doing my damned job and that he would have sued the hell out of me if I hadn't suggested any other option, just to teach me a lesson. Combative bastard. Anyway, the point is what he wanted was disregarded and he's been paying for it ever since."

She took yet another breath, trying to steady herself, closing her eyes for a second and throwing them open again as the memory of the expression on Greg's face when he first realized that his leg was forever damaged. Another flash of watching discreetly as he did PT, falling again and again as he tried to adjust to a leg that would no longer obey his commands. Seeing him on the floor in his office late at night once he'd returned to work, the sheer agony of those first spasms more than he could handle at the time. The idea that those were now considered 'good days' was so wrong, so unfair. He was the last person in the world who deserved such a fate and her heart broke and reformed every time she saw him.

_...I shut my eyes when you're around...I hold my breath to kill the sound..._

She opened her eyes and watched John House in particular.

"The most we can do at this point is try to find a non-opioid painkiller for him in an effort not to destroy anything else. And the chemotherapy is going to wreak more havoc on his body. He'll be vomiting constantly, he'll be terribly weak, he'll be in yet another level of Hell. He tried to keep us from helping him because of the way we abandoned him this past year and would have died rather than come to us. It's what we get, I suppose."

_...Well, we have got to get out of here...In our darkest hour...I think the end is here...I can feel it..._

John sat on the bench outside of the operating room, staring at the clock on the wall but not seeing it. Blythe was wrapped in his left arm, her eyes closed as tears streamed down her face. She occasionally opened them to wipe them with John's handkerchief, but her eyes were visibly very reddened and she maintained a tight grip on John's hand. John, himself, was lost in the memories of seven years ago when he'd rankled Greg mercilessly, demanding to know why he couldn't just cut off his damned leg.

He realized now that Greg was trying to maintain some sort of control, something he'd lacked his entire life, largely thanks to John, himself. If he'd died, he at least would have known that he'd finally gotten to do something because it was what he'd wanted as opposed to being ordered to do so. He remembered staring at Greg, watching him as he tried to pull himself out of the stupor the medication had put him in. John hadn't understood why on Earth Greg couldn't just get rid of it and use a prosthesis instead. He took a deep breath, trying not to cry again. He wouldn't be able to keep his eyes open and watch Greg come out of there. He wouldn't get a chance to see him after they were finished and he woke up enough for him to say he was sorry. He knew Wilson had advised him to stop apologizing, but with every memory the need grew harder to ignore. He wished with all his heart that Greg was small again.

He wished there was a do-over or rewind button he could push so he could go back to all the times he'd made Greg cry and scream, every time he'd humiliated, degraded him, and treated him a nuisance not worth bothering with. He covered his face with his hands then and shuddered as memories of Blythe and Gregory began playing through his mind.

**21 December, 1959; 21:26 GMT; Kaneohe, Hawaii**

John was pacing feverishly through the waiting room, his heart feeling like it was going to pound out of his chest. Blythe had been in labor for so long and he was at his wits end. He threw himself into a chair, rubbing a shaking hand across his face and wishing with all his might that he could go back there behind those doors, rules be damned. He stood up, ready to do just that when Dr. Thatcher came through the doors, pale but triumphant expression on his face. John stalked up to him, barely refraining from grabbing the other man's lapels and lifting him off the ground.

"Where the hell are they?" he said in as calm a voice as he could manage, fisting his hands, trying to control himself. "Where?"

"Staff Sergeant House, I assure you that your wife and son are perfectly fine--"

"How in the hell can they be 'fine'? He's a month early. My wife was bleedin' and faint when I brought her here. What do you mean fine?"

John snapped his mouth shut, taking a breath and trying to remember that this wasn't any war. It was his family and while he was worried sick, he had to stay calm. It wouldn't do anyone any good to lose it now.

The doctor frowned slightly, then, and addressed John calmly. "I can honestly assure you, Staff Sergeant, that while your wife's labor was difficult, both she and your son should be fine after they've recovered from their ordeal. Your son will thrive in time."

John raised his eyebrows hopefully before staring into the doctor's grey eyes with his own blazing green ones. "That's...good to hear. I'd like to see my wife and my son," he said softly. "Please take me to them."

_As I was walkin' through a life one morning, the sun was out, the air was warm and, oh, I was cold...And I must have looked like half a person, tell the tale in my own version, it was only then that I felt whole..._

John gripped the rim of is hat, his heart pounding a staccato beat in his chest, when Dr. Thatcher finally lead him to a room with the blinds drawn, but partially opened. The baby wasn't there, but Blythe was, her entire frame pale and barely conscious. John furiously blinked back tears and walked over to her bedside, leaning down on one knee to gently grip hers. Blythe sighed and her head turned slowly to meet his and he tried to lay a soft hand on her belly, finally glad that he could touch it after months of horrible tenderness that had left her in such pain, she'd had to wear nothing more half the time than John's old work shirts unable to wear regular clothing. And she'd been so small that people had unabashedly assumed that she wasn't even pregnant. He could feel the threaded plastic feeling of the bandages on her stomach, watched the blood being siphoned from a bag hanging from the IV pole next to her bed. But she was conscious and smiling sleepily at him.

"Are ya okay?" John whispered, sweeping her sweaty hair back from her forehead before gently kissing it as she drifted back to sleep, too tired to answer. He gazed down at her, believing that she'd never been as beautiful as she'd been in this moment before he turned and walked slowly over to the baby's bassinet, startled and staring at the shocking small and thin baby boy below in the hospital crib, his eyes closed and his entire body encased in a tiny blue hat and at least three layers of blue fleece blanket, only vaguely responsive when John stroked a thumb across his thin cheek. John stared at the boy, wondering how this had happened. He'd expected a chubby little bouncing ball with green eyes like his own or hazel, like Blythe's. The little boy yawned and his eyes opened for a fraction of a second.

One month early. The result of a condition that could have easily killed his mother (and him, but John blocked that out). Bright and innocent blue.

John's fists clenched, regarding the miniature body in the bassinet with mixture of disgust and fear flooding through him like blood from wound.

_Fight back, you little pussy!_ But he'd been too small, then. By the time he'd been older, his father was dead and it had been his brother who'd tormented him instead. Both of them with their piercing blue and their fists, knocking the air out of his lungs, the blood seeping into the thin barriers still unbroken in his skin.

_...Somebody get me through this nightmare...I can't control myself...Somebody wake me from this nightmare...I can't escape this hell..._

**29 December, 1959; Manhattan, New York**

The child was given a _bris_ on his eighth day, because her family had converted when she was twelve, finding Catholicism and Episcopalian-ism too confining for their liking and Blythe's family never questioned their decision to give the child the first, second, and third names Gregory, John, and Christopher. After all, it wasn't as though they'd been the most obedient of Jews and besides, Blythe looked so radiant holding her gift from whoever deemed fit to give him to her, no one had dared infringe on her happiness. He remembers wanting desperately to get drunk, to crawl into a corner and vomit all the hurt, the pain, the worthlessness out. There was never enough. He vomited, but he never finished the bottle. The thought of Blythe and her beautiful laughter as she read the books her mother's oldest brother had written when Phoebe Caulfield had only been ten.

It had been Blythe's mother who had cornered John in the kitchen as he'd drank liberally from his glass of wine, trying to conceal the fact that he was hiding. That sentence had been repetitive in some way, but John had been too intoxicated to care much. He tried to ignore the hazel eyes that bored into him like they would throw flames at him if they could.  


"So. Here you are, getting drunk as a the bottle the wine's in--and, might I add that my husband bought that bottle for our twentieth anniversary...one we never had a chance to reach, as he's dead now and has been since she was three...nearly my daughter's entire life. Here you are, trying to forget that little miracle in there is yours, too."

_...Am I more than you bargained for, yeah, I'm dying to tell you anything you want to hear...'Cause that's just who I am this week..._

He'd never personally known any of her brothers (the third one dead since the age of ten previously very close to the second and fourth of them, Blythe's own mother) one an apparently prolific writer deeply ensconced in subjects and contexts John couldn't wrap head around no matter how much Blythe had tried to explain them; the other one they said was off, cynical and desperately unstable since their younger brother's death, and slowly descending into his own universe (he'd been committed more than once after having a nervous breakdown and finally attempting suicide in a dilapidated hotel room in Alphabet City, New York--he lived in Phoebe's attic now and stared at Gregory during the ceremony), nor her deceased husband (a bout of staph had killed him after he'd gotten his ruptured appendix removed too late), but he remembered the day he'd met the rest of the family...

**19 April, 1959; Manhattan, New York**

He'd worn his dress uniform, slightly shocked then irritated that he'd been the only one who'd really bothered to dress up for the occasion.

Phoebe Caulfield's oldest brother was dressed in an untucked dress shirt with his shirttails hanging out and, the white t-shirt he wore under it bright and spotless in the sunlight, oddly enough, his dark brown peyes and long beard trailing from the sides of his face, and black pants that looked worn in some parts, laughing grabbing the always and forever Jewish children that ran around them and yelling in a language he couldn't speak.

It had been the recluse's (as John privately called him in his own head) birthday and the half-dead psycho's greyish-black hair was sticking on end and his face was pale, his eyes looking up at the sky, seeing something no one else could...was the only one wearing a black suit with a red, black, and white striped tie, the only one wearing dress shoes and socks, his black military-issue boots shined so that said sun reflected from them like newly minted coins. John couldn't understand how the craziest one in the bunch was the best dressed of the lot. He didn't want to think about it. Then _Holden_ turned to stare at him and John felt as though he was seeing John's soul, sifting through it and dissecting what he found. The sunshine alighted on Holden's eyes and John shuddered.

Blue.

Blythe had been a month pregnant then and he'd longed to take her away from this collection of weirdos and wishing he could take her back to Ohio, to his own family.

A strange knot of fear twisted in his stomach then at this thought and he shoved it down, concentrating on the way Blythe reached behind _Holden_'s neck and kissed his cheek and the way _Holden_ leaned into her touch, a soft smile coming to his face. They brought the kosher birthday cake with no frosting over to him and he'd grabbed a piece of the cake without candles and smiled at, holding it like it was priceless jewel. He'd started to cry then, tears sliding down his pale face and his smile widened until his surprisingly white teeth were visible. He had contemplated it for a moment before he twisted in his seat and smashed the piece of cake into their oldest brother's face and a food fight had begun.

John ducked behind a chair so as not to get hit by flying cake. His family had never had food fights.

_...Isn't it messed up, how I'm just dying to be him..._

"Holden!" Blythe had exclaimed, her smile wide and giddy with barely contained laughter as she swiped the cake from her face and rushed over to grab his shoulders again. _Holden_ stood then, turning and gently leaning into her ear to whisper something. All the others had paused to watch and John had, too, waiting anxiously to see if Blythe or the baby would be hurt. But Blythe just nodded and _Holden_ placed each of his hands on either side of her belly, a wondrous look on his face. John couldn't help himself then, marching forward and pushing _Holden's_ surprisingly clean hands away from Blythe and grabbing her hand to pull her to the car. He had turned to do just that when Blythe had snatched her hand out of his, smearing the cake crumbs from her face and the tears that had mingled with them.

She'd turned promptly around and stalked into the house, slamming the back door so hard her that the glass panel in it had broken into twelve separate pieces. He knows this because a month later, he'd received a letter and package from **Holden Morrisey Caulfield**, containing every piece of glass, some stained with his own blood, others with stanzas of and quotes from poets and books John had never heard of. The pieces were wrapped carefully in insulation and the letter contained one sentence.

**Make her cry again and you'll be this glass, you goddamned bastard.**

Then, John gritted his teeth and tried not to look at them, tried not to think of the desk, notebooks, the extremely worn hunter's cap, the baseball mitt he would eventually know was the origin of the poems her uncle had sent him that week so long ago.

**1967; Roanoke, Virginia;**

All those things, and more, Blythe had inherited from them in time, keeping the desk in Greg's bedroom where no one else but those closest to them saw it, and many of the other heirlooms including David Bernard Caulfield's enormous bed that Phoebe Caulfield-Baker had slept in when her brother had left to, as Holden had been known to say, 'whore himself' in Hollywood. The desk, come to think of it, had been his, too.

Greg inherited the bed when he was twenty-two, a graduation gift from Blythe that he'd laughed and accepted with effusive gratitude. The passing around of possessions in the Caulfield family never seemed like the House family hand-me-downs. For one, they all had genuine affection for the objects they gave each other. Even Greg had smiled and laughed when he'd opened the set of little journals and drawings that his oldest great-uncle had plotted his stories and scripts in. He had read them industriously for months, memorizing every word and acting them out with the toy soldiers John had bought him.

John had watched, his brow knitted in confusion, as Greg lay some of the soldiers down and covered them with scraps he'd gotten from his mother's sewing kit. He'd looked at them in solemnity, his eyes bright with tears. John had asked what he was doing. Greg, eight by then, hadn't looked up.

"It's a mass grave. I don't have very many _Juden_ soldiers who were captured by the _Deutsche_ so I'm forced to use stand-ins. They shot the medics first so they couldn't help the rest, patch them up; stop their bleeding, use leeches to heal them faster. The Nazis shot them in their heads and buried the rest alive. I wish I could help them all, the Allies and the Nazi deserters--the few who remembered they had consciences and morals, that they could think for themselves. Realized they were humans and not walking weapons to be used to destroy, to cause pain and leave destruction in their wake."

That had been the last time Greg had spoken with John and never again with such emotion as a child; that had been the last time John had spoken civilly to his only child. After that, John wouldn't let Greg read those journals. Wouldn't let Greg read John's history books. John put them on the highest shelf in the hall closet; locked them in a combination safe in the basement; Blythe had raised her eyebrow when she'd returned from the commissary and immediately went to collect the books, asking John to unlock the box.

"Greg," Blythe had promised, placing the books one by one on the David Bernard's desk before settling them all in the various drawers and shelves. "If you can be patient and wait until your thirteen, then you can read them."

And Greg had blinked at his mother, his eyes glassy with thanks, and hugged her in that way he never hugged John. Like he loved her.

Blythe didn't look at him like that anymore. The books were his _Bar Mitzvah_ gifts and he'd stayed up the entire night and some of the following day reading as many as he could. He wouldn't have another conversation with his father for thirty-four more years.

_...And I saw God cry in the reflection of my enemies...And all the lovers with no time for me...And all of the mothers raise their babies to stay away from here..._


	10. Chapter 10

**Disintegration**  
_By Angelfirenze_

**Disclaimer:** Shore, Jacobs, Singer, et al., own everything. The lyrics belong to various bands. The references, quotes and--sometimes--lines, books, and movies mentioned belong to the authors and script writers who wrote them, etc.

**Summary:** Then House smirked and it was the most bitter, ugliest expression that Chase had ever seen him make.

**Rating: R** for language and other objectionable subject matter.

**Pairing:** It was originally going to be House/Cuddy, but my muse has decided that this will be a gen fic rather than het. At least that's the way it's turning out. I think I'll go with it.

Reviews are always encouraged and appreciated.

_...If it was just one night...And you could be revealed..._

When House was transferred back to his original room in the ICU (still wearing the victory cap, because he refused to take it off), Chase was there to tend to him because of his specialty and because he (and Cuddy) demanded to be House's primary caregiver at the moment. By now, House's parents were off getting some richly-needed sleep. It was very early in the morning or late at night when House woke up enough to be fully coherent and ask why Chase was there.

Chase looked up, his hands steepled under his chin, and took a breath before asking House, "Do you believe in God?"

House stared at him and asked in a quiet and calm voice, "Why?"

Chase thought for a bit and said, "Because I've noticed that you insist that you're an atheist, but sometimes you talk as if God...left you or something. Or that you have this idea that God is playing hide and seek with you or something and you're _It_ and have to find Him again. Other times, you talk as if you and God are in some kind of competition--like with the kid we treated last year. I just...it's one of the things I don't know about you and haven't ever been able to even get a clue about. Your dad--I found him in the chapel this...yesterday morning. He was saying a sacrament for you. I've said several for you. Your dad is Catholic and so am I. You know that, obviously. You might wonder why we would pray for you, but I...it doesn't matter to us, whether you think you're worth it or not. We do. Anyway, I'm getting off topic. Sorry."

House raised an eyebrow at Chase and he chuckled nervously. "Okay, fine--no shame, no apologies." Chase sighed. "Anyway, I get confused about a lot of things pertaining to you, which is probably what you intended. A lot of people don't know a thing about you. I mean, sure, you're the main topic in the rumor mill, but you don't actually gossip, so much as watch people and see what they do and, if it suits your situation later--like there's an emergency with a patient and you need their help and they won't give it to you, you use that information to blackmail them into doing what you want. Also, you may threaten to start rumors, but you never actually make good on it. In fact, half the time you help cover them up. I...I think you know what Cameron and I did in that other sleep lab."

And here House chuckled, knowing what he meant.

Chase gave him a wry smile. "You're the one who stole the tape, aren't you?"

House's face went blank and Chase knew he'd never admit it.

"Thanks. Really. I mean it."

House took a deep breath and Chase ran a hand through his hair before continuing.

"Anyway, since I've digressed from the tangent I was already on...do you have a religion? Did you ever have one and you lapsed? Or do you really just not...believe...in anything?"

And House watched him for so long that Chase almost thought he wasn't going to answer.

"When I was little--yes, I was little once, as I'm sure my mother would love to tell you--no matter how much I'd like everyone around here that I sprang up a fully grown troll from the ground somewhere."

And here, Chase chuckled. House smirked and continued.

"To paraquote "The Boondocks", I _got pleasure from sunsets and trees, dolphins and rainbows._ I once asked her how soap and water made them while we were washing the car. She'd be happy to tell you that she taught me how to play the piano practically before I could reach the keys on my own. She'd be happy to tell you about my childhood nights at synagogue, saying _Kaddish_."

And here, Chase's mouth fell open. "You're Jewish?"

House raised his eyebrow again and sighed. "My mother is Jewish, as is most of her family. She and my father told you about some of them while I was upstairs half-stoned on anesthesia. They were Catholic and Episcopalian at first--my grandmother's parents had different religions and all their kids were agnostic anyway--so that's really a family tradition more than anything. They converted to Judaism when my mother was twelve and she found that she loved it, which is great because she had her _Bat Mitzvah_ later that year and got to read the Torah and have a huge party with lots of latkes and wine and all that cool stuff.

"But my dad's family...they're all Roman Catholics--devout Catholics with a long and illustrious history of military service and were, by my mother's account, a bunch of the most miserable, bitter people she'd ever laid eyes on. She wanted to get him away from all that, she said. Anyway, so I mostly think of myself as a third generation agnostic, first generation atheist but...I don't actually know what I am. I remember when I was little, in synagogue, I would look at the huge scrolls of the Torah and I'd try to read the Hebrew on them--I've been able to speak Hebrew practically since birth because my mother's family had a habit of switching back and forth between Hebrew and English and moving all over the place, I picked up a lot of other languages, too."

Chase watches House smile, then, and is mesmerized because it's the first time he's ever seen House really _smile_. Smirking and leering, sure, but positively happy? Never. So he watches now and fights down the urge to smile himself as though he's afraid that House's will retreat back into the sadness and anger that clings to him no matter how hard he tries to shake it off. Like a burr on your pant leg, Chase thinks, but he doesn't say anything.

"But anyway," House says, finally continuing to speak, the smile a little less visible, but still there. "Those letters, those numbers...they mesmerized me. It was like a puzzle. I would spend hours at home looking at the _Siddur_ and using the alphanumeric text and combine it with the Latin my father spoke whenever he thought I couldn't hear him. I made up my own language. I even made a dictionary or a sort of glossary for it. I even wrote a story once where the characters spoke it in everyday conversation. I still have it."

House's face becomes pensive, then, and Chase feels as though he's watching wet clay being molded.

"I have a lot of things I didn't think I'd be able to hold on to. Military weight regulations and all...but I have this one box that, if I arranged them carefully, I could fit everything in it. I even have my treasure hunting tools from when we lived in Egypt in there. Wilson's never seen it. Cuddy's never seen it. Not even Stacy ever did."

House sighs again, his face blank once more. "But, to answer your question...I don't know. I've decided that I don't have enough experience or knowledge or ability to comprehend it all in a way that would let me believe in this or that or to even have an idea about God. I won't know the answer until I'm dead. It's the greatest puzzle ever and most people don't even realize it because they think they have all the answers. But no one does. I don't have faith in people. It's hard to have faith in something that tries so hard to destroy itself and everything around it. You try to create a utopia and that turns to shit, too, because it's built around _someone's_ idea of a perfect world. _A world without sin._, so sayeth the Alliance operative in _Serenity_ who promptly went forward to kill everything and everyone that stood between him and one of the most innocent beings I've ever seen."

House scowled, then, and while it gave Chase the feeling of security that comes with recognition, there was also a sense of sadness because House's happiness was so brief.

"I'm not innocent. I do things that most people think are despicable. I frequent bars and OTBs, I drink, I'm obviously heavily dependent on a narcotic drug--and despite what some people might think, that's not something that could or should ever be changed--and that it's probably the only thing in my life that's completely ruined it but that wasn't a choice _I_ made. But...that's not the thing that pains me. What pains me is that when I was little, like most kids, I had absolute faith that whatever was up there, watching us all...like some morbidly obsessive documentary on the thin line between good and evil and the choices that take us to either side...watching me...was always going to keep me warm, dry, and safe. I could smile and my dad would lift me up and spin me around and we'd play pilot and when he set me back on my feet, I'd be unstable, but he was always there to catch me and I'd laugh and we'd do it again and again and again and I loved it. I loved him. I _still_ love him. But then my father went off to war far, far away and then he came back and I never got to believe that again."

Chase watched, his eyes widened in sadness and in shock as tears welled up in House's eyes and he shut them, trying to squeeze them back in. When he opened them again, gazing up at the ceiling, his eyes were reddened and glassy.

"I remember when he left, he bent over and kissed the top of my head and told me to take care of my mother, help her not feel so sad. But then he came back and I used to wonder if it was something I'd done wrong. If I'd made my daddy mad so that he didn't like me or my mommy anymore. He'd always go off on a jeep and then he'd come home really late and he'd walk past my room and turn to me in my tent--I hated my bed and never slept in it unless my father put me in it after one of my..._punishments_. But he'd turn to me and he'd stare at me while I tried to pretend I was asleep and I could smell that he'd been drinking. Not a lot, but enough to be able to tell. I remember him whispering in Latin because he didn't think I could speak it. He'd say he was sorry. Years later, I stopped believing that. That it was true or meant anything...it was a rote memorization of words. That he could be sorry, that G-d or Whomever had their eye on me or anyone else. They couldn't if my life was such hell. Little did I know that it was only the tip of the iceberg, to use a tired yet horribly accurate cliché.

"But...about a month and a half ago...I saw a documentary on the Sundance Channel, because whee! Robert Redford's annual moviefest just wasn't enough. We need awesomeness all year round. Anyway, the one I saw was about the effect of the war in Afghanistan and Iraq on the veterans who've survived and come home. The traumas they've gone through and the way it destroyed their humanity. It's like someone flips on this switch but..they don't tell you how to turn it the fuck back off. You're always angry, you're always thisclose to losing it. You can't figure out who you even are anymore. They've turned you into a living weapon. They've driven you crazy and then they want you to stay that way because if you try to seek help for the flashbacks and the rage and the night terrors, they call you a _conscientious objector_ and say they _can't help you._"

Then House smirked and it was the most bitter, ugliest expression that Chase had ever seen him make. "They're like the Alliance, really, the way they condition people, strip them of their sanity...the price they pay, I guess. Remember in the Firefly episode, 'Ariel', when Simon got that 3-D imager scan of River's brain and stared at it, horror filling him at what they'd done to his beautiful, innocent sister. The most important person in his world?"

Chase nodded, remembering with a sinking feeling in his gut as he recalled Simon Tam's words.

_They cut into her brain. And they did it over and over...the only reason to cut into someone's brain is to lobotomize them, to remove dead tissue...why someone would cut into a _healthy_ brain is--they stripped her amygdala._

"She feels everything," he quotes back at House, even more horrified.

House nods and finishes the words, "She can't not. It's just like that. And the ones that come home, they try to dull the pain, bury it, but it always comes back. And they cannot sleep. They lash out. And the government did that to them, to my father, trying to make that _World Without Sin._ But they don't see their own evil...or maybe they do, what with all the effort they put into hiding it from the civilian public. They way they hide what they do to those people and others, strangers they've never even met. The families they destroy. They tear you apart and then don't even bother to _try_ to put you back together so I guess River's not the only 'prodigious' project in the world or any other. They _all_ are. My father _died_ in Vietnam. The only thing that came back was a shell--a zombie. The walking undead. Or sort of a Reaver-lite. Because they can't control themselves, can't control the aggression and the all consuming fear. And it's all because ever since World War II, all our country has been obsessed with has been meddling. 'Being in the hearts and the minds of the people'--George W. Bush actually _said_ that shit and it's more accurate than that idiot realizes. World War II...That war was the last one went to to actually _save lives_. I _don't_ hate the military. I love it and every aspect of their jobs. It's awesome, really, willing to do something like that. But I don't like what happens when there's a war and suddenly they're all being dragged away from their families and we all miss each other and there's nothing we can do about it. You watch them leave and you hope to who or whatever that they come back, that you won't have to mourn. Because it hurts, missing them so badly it makes you cry and cry because your daddy or your mommy has gone away and you don't know when they'll be back. You don't know where they've gone. You want your parent back and you can't have them. But despite all that, being a military brat is part of who I am and I don't know who I'd be if I wasn't. I love all the places I've been and the things I've seen, but I hate the things my father has seen and done and the government who put them in that position, but wouldn't _ever_ let their own children serve. No way, fuck _that_. Let someone else's son or daughter or father or mother die because it's just much more preferable. Not to mention more convenient.

"Now...we're going to other worlds, other civilizations and deciding that they should be a carbon copy of ours and anyone who puts up a threat against that abrupt change should be done away with. Humanity and all its splendor be damned. Sometimes I wonder if there's a connection between the term 'good' and 'G-d', versus the term 'evil' and 'Devil'. It's all an unanswerable question for me."

House took a long, deep breath, his bright blue eyes burning in his pale face and Chase watched him back, waiting.

"So. Robert," House tells him, using his first name for the first time in a very long while. "I'll tell you this. I don't think I have the capacity to decide if G-d exists or what _Their_ intentions are...but I know that _people_ are evil. And stupid. And immoral. And sometimes soulless monsters. And every other malevolent thing in existence. And it knows it. I found an entire paragraph that was deleted from the Muse turned Demon, Azrael's exposition in '_Dogma_'...I like to think of it in combination with the Grigory Bartleby's despair over what amounts to the same thing. One had been a muse, remember, and had ascertained that inspiration had no place in battle. Bartleby had been a Watcher, sent down to Earth to watch over the humans and the ones that weren't soon corrupted truly felt sorry for the victims of the Lord's wrath.

"He--and I guess by now, I'm taking into account the sort of doctrine laid out in that surprisingly philosophical movie about the nature of G-d and the roles of angels and humans in the vaulted Great Plan. It certainly fit my interpretation of everything more than any other movie on that subject than any other...until _Constantine_ came long. I was mildly interested in the fact that those became two of my favorite movies for reasons I couldn't fathom at the time. Eventually I made a chart about the characters and their purposes and the actions they'd taken and some of the outcomes of their fates. That helped--I guess my habit of analyzing every and anything can be handy sometimes. But that's when I decided that I just couldn't know. But, anyway, away from my own digression and back to what Bartleby and Azrael said."

House took several deep breaths to steady himself and continued, "Hell was once just the absence of G-d and if you had known Them once, then you know that hurts more than anything you could possibly take. But Man, being unable to see that if they just..accepted responsibility and asked for redemption, they could get G-d to take them back...but they refused to forgive themselves first, let alone ask for redemption, so Hell evolved into an overwhelming pit of the most horrific, soul-retching shit you could ever think of...because of lack of faith, not only in G-d, but in ourselves. Everything we and our hatred and our anger touches is burned and scorched, crumples to waste because we let it. Some of us, women for the main part, can be so gentle and...and have beautiful bright souls."

House looked at Chase again, appraisingly, like he had the night before last. Chase watched him back, inwardly marveling at how calm he seemed to be in House's presence now, when even three years ago, the man had terrified him with his unpredictability.

"I think you have one," House said softly and Chase couldn't help the surprise that fell over his face. House smiled again and Chase took a breath, allowing himself, for the first time in all the years he'd known House, to smile a little back. "Why?"

House's eyebrows raised appreciatively and Chase smiled even more. House's face was still blank, but his eyes were warm. "You're honest and you've allowed yourself to _become_ yourself. Become a real human instead of a cardboard cut out or a mannequin for someone else to manipulate and pose."

Then the anger returned and Chase almost felt like he could feel it in his bones, the way he knew House probably did whenever it rained.

"But most of them...they've been given such...gifts. Such...an abundance of wealth--and I don't mean monetary, fuck that--I mean wealth of love, of caring for yourself and those around you and trusting in the fact that if you needed them, they'd be right there for you. And we've thrown all that away on selfish endeavors and egotistic--which is actually the wrong term, according to that sexual organ fetishist, Freud. The term _ego_ was originally the sort of fence between the _superego_, your loving capacity--and the _id_, which is your unsavory impulses' origin. Which I think is bullshit, but I think I get the point that psycho was trying to make.

"We are given choices every day, to obey and to reflect either side. The sheer amount of people who stop caring which side is which scares me. I _can't_ believe in people anymore! I _hate_ that! They _lie_ to me and damn themselves in an effort to outdo someone or something they can't even see! They think the more they lie, the more I'll care. Hypocritical bullshit that serves no one, least of all the very person needing help! _How_ does lying _help?_"

Chase watches House, who is now sitting straight up in bed, the Yankees cap shielding a portion of his bandages but leaving his face clear and vivid with emotions he's never seen in this man. His eyes are wide and he realizes he hasn't taken a breath in some time, how long he doesn't know. And he watches now as House's frenetic energy he'd managed while talking for so long has completely left him and he's fallen and is now lying on the bed in obvious discomfort, but unable to do anything about it. Chase got up slowly and walked quietly over to House's bed.

"What do you need?" he asked in a soft voice, watching to see if House flinched or moaned.

Instead House just stared at the ceiling before whispering, "I need to stop hating my life. Have they got meds for _that_ yet? Because Jimmy slipping anti-depressants into my morning coffee doesn't count. I'm not supposed to smile while telling people they're going to die. He doesn't, so why do I have to?"

House frowned, then, "And speaking of which, you know how his hair is always so fluffy and cowlicky? The cowlicks aren't on purpose. He has those even when his hair is wet--and don't go getting any dirty thoughts about that. One night that hellhound, Julie...the one even the nurses and all of us in his and our departments hate because she treated him like shit...she kicked him out into a fucking monsoon and he managed to cab it to my apartment. By the time he got up to the door, he was absolutely saturated. His hair, however, whilst dripping, still stuck up in places. I think he may be secretly related to the Potter family."

Chase grinned then, relieved that House had finally made some sort of joke after all the despair of the past...well, _ever_ in his case.

But then House looked at him seriously. "Your apartment. Where is it?"

Chase felt the blood drain from his face. "Why?"

House scowled again, "Because you have two contributors to your chromosomal deoxyribonucleic acid and one of them forced _you_ to take care of _her_, not because she was sick, but because she drank herself into her grave and the other, a self-serving prick who dragged you around, pretending he gave a shit about you, then dumped you unceremoniously back home and saying, 'fuck it and fuck you, too'--had metatastic cancer and couldn't be...mother of Hell...he couldn't even fucking tell you that to your face. He told _me_. And then he asked me not to tell you. I wanted to, just to spite the selfish son of a whore, but I didn't."

House sighed, narrowing his eyes up at the ceiling.

"I guess I kept _hoping_ he had some sort of compunction or something--which, as you know, I don't normally grant for anyone. But you...I wanted to see a father doing right by his child and he disappointed me more than I thought possible. Then, just before dying like the coward he was, he added insult to injury by cutting you out of his will. What the fuck was he trying to do? Punish you? Punish you for what? Existing? That was his fault, not yours. Your apartment. Where is it?"

Chase felt his face crumple, blinking and looking down at House's feet under his blankets and sheets, not wanting to cry in front of him.

"Robert," House snapped, his voice soft but timbre sharp and Chase felt himself snap to attention. "Tell me where it is. Not saying anything is a lie of omission. Your fucking lowlife of a sperm donor forced me to tell one; don't you do it now."

Chase shuddered and felt himself hitch. A tear slid down his left cheek and he had to restrain himself from wiping it away.

He told House the address.

_...'Cause I see you lying next to me...With words I thought I'd never speak...Awake and unafraid...Asleep or dead..._

It was another month before House was strong enough to finally go home. He didn't bother to clip the medical bracelet from his wrist, countering his parents' protests with the fact that it was pointless since they all knew he had to go for more chemotherapy within the week. He wore the Yankees cap on a regular basis now, chemo having made what little hair that had grown back after his surgery fall right out. The bandages were gone now, the scars nicely healed, which was a huge plus because he no longer felt the insane desire to scratch his head vigorously.

When it finally abated, he'd slump back against his pillow and Dad would let go of his wrists, sitting back and saying softly that it'd be over soon, that the bandages would come off and that the irritation would stop.

House would nod and scowl even more, whispering bitterly that he knew, but that it didn't make it any more bearable. The meager strength he had from resting after the chemo was completely sapped now and he would fall asleep listening to Dad humming tunelessly, his last conscious thought being that he and Mom were in agreement that Dad couldn't carry a tune in a barrel, let alone some stupid bucket. But he didn't mind.

It was so much better than fighting and hurting each other all the time. So what if his ears melted, right?

But the annoyance was gone now and he'd been cleared to go home, coming back twice a week for chemotherapy and a modified regiment of PT to counteract the deterioration of his right leg, while causing him the minimum amount of pain. He'd called them big babies and insisted they extend and contract his leg like they would otherwise, reminding them that he could take whatever they dished out.

The therapists had smirked and done as he'd asked, relieved when he calmly reacted the same way he always had. Dad had attended two of the sessions, seen the deep crevice, the scarring on his right leg and resisted the urge to flinch and frown, both impressed and saddened at the way Greg simply gave little flinches whenever there seemed to be pain. He never made a sound and the after the first session, John had gone back to his and Blythe's suite in the ICU and covered his face with a hand, crying quietly until the sobs had finally lessened into hiccups. He'd gotten slowly to his feet and entered the adjoining bathroom and washed his face, affirming in his mind that his son was one of the strongest people he'd ever known. Stronger than he'd ever been and truly the miracle his grandmother had proclaimed him to be nearly fifty years before.

_...Stop speaking for me and I'll stop speaking for you..._

After House had come home, he'd immediately demanded to see Chase's apartment, going alone with him to the address in a place just outside Plainsboro and watching Chase unlock the door. House had taken one look at the place before softly but vehemently cursing at great length in languages Chase couldn't understand and some he could, inwardly marveling at the fact that he hadn't been aware you could _do_ such things with a boomerang, or that marsupials could be spurred to do anything like _that_.

It was then and there that his _dad_ had turned to him and said quietly but firmly that Rob was going to have his apartment and that was that. Rob had gaped at him until Dad had risen an eyebrow and recommended he close his mouth before insects decided to make their home in it. Rob had slammed his mouth shut so hard that they both heard his teeth click and Dad had shaken his head, muttering something about dentists making a fortune before expertly, if slowly, maneuvering his wheelchair back to his 'abominable death trap' of a car, as Lisa liked to refer to it, and Rob got him situated shotgun before climbing into the driver's seat and driving Dad back to his (their) apartment, Dad saying that they would get his things moved and out of storage as soon as he and Jimmy had moved into Lisa's house because they thought it was 'fucking ridiculous that Jimmy's been taking up valuable space at the Hyatt when various illicit activities could be taking place there, instead.' Rob had to struggle to hold back a laugh to avoid swerving into the oncoming lane and his dad had smiled in victory.

_...You were the one, but I can't spit it out when the date's been set..._

At the moment, Mom, Dad, Lisa, Jimmy, and Rob (who he called that all the time now, and Rob called him 'Dad') were presently wrapping his things in insulation and setting them strategically into sectioned and open boxes. His books had taken ten boxes all on their own, Dad laughing that they might as well have a library built behind Lisa's larger house to accommodate them all. Chase had been adamant in participating, having personally watched with House as Chase's name was painted on the new window beside the door. Rob had managed to stifle a sob, gripping the handles of House's wheelchair--his own, by then, having balked at riding out of the hospital front doors in one of the 'stupid, geeky hospital crap just-damned-ugly' ('Shut, up, House.') wheelchairs--as the window bearing Dad's (as he now called House in private, having explained at length what he'd told John House weeks ago) name had been removed and the one bearing the title of **ROBERT CHASE, M.D. - DEPARTMENT OF DIAGNOSTICS** was fitted and soldered to replace it. Lisa had promptly agreed when both Jimmy and Rob had asked that the previous window be preserved so as to be framed and hanged in what was to become House's study in her house.

It was official: Dr. Gregory House was retiring. He no longer worked there; headed a department. He'd no longer stalk about, terrorizing any stranger in his wake, darkly amusing those who knew him well, incensing those who hated him most.

He felt like a soldier becoming a private citizen again. Maybe this was how his father had felt. _If you're a good soldier, you'll be a bad civilian..._

Small steps--figurative ones. He wasn't strong enough anymore for the cane and neither of his arms was strong enough now to support his body weight in any fashion. Sometimes it was a relief, no longer suffering backaches or stiffness in his left from favoring it for so long. Other times it felt like a prison or an over-sized stroller for an over-sized child. Cuddy and Wilson accused him of being one already, but this--he felt--cemented it. Sometimes he seethed. Other times he was just too tired to care.

He went home on a Wednesday. He used surnames out of habit, forgetting that they were no longer his colleagues. They'd humor him and then he'd remember and want to throw something, but everything was too heavy. _He_ was too heavy and it sucked.

Everything sucked.

Sometimes he had seizures, small ones where he'd lose awareness of his surroundings or trail off in the middle of a sentence. Other times, he'd forget things--remembering just in time that the milk did not belong in a cabinet. He was happy because it was light enough to carry, furious that he had to fucking _care_.

Once, Wilson found him in his bed, trying to sit up and failing again and again and again. He growled viciously when Wilson tried to help and swung an arm out blindly, trying to connect and failing at that, too. Those times he cried.

A month later, it was decided that his apartment was too small. That he needed more care than there was room for. He threw himself out of his wheelchair, crawling, dragging himself into a corner and weakly gripping the edge of the big desk. They'd left him alone, then, a full week going by before it was mentioned again.

Cameron and Foreman were gone, to their chosen destinations and he found it hard to care. It was all so tiring. He had enough people _staying_ as it was. It was a full month before he agreed, his face pale, his expression dull, his voice lifeless and flat. His father had watched him, frowning not in disappointment in the first time that he could remember. His father lay a hand on the top of his head, the weight warm and heavy. It made him itch and burn, but he couldn't bring himself to get away. His father took his hand away and kissed his forehead, saying, "It'll be alright, Little Albatross."

But House...Greg--he'd never be House again, like Lisa would never be Cuddy and Jimmy would never be Wilson again. He had to call them by their names. It'd been so long, he didn't know if he could do it. Their names felt thick on his tongue, like glue or wet sand...and Greg...Greg tried to believe his father. But he couldn't.

A week later, Chase--Robert. Rob. Rob showed up with a bucket filled with cleaning crap and a determined look on his face. He would help, he said. He owed so much more, he told Greg when they were in the kitchen and the bucket had been placed where Steve's cage had once sat. So they started. They brought boxes, some with slats, others open and they packed away his things. They packed away his life and he was dying earlier and earlier every minute.

The five of them all packed his belongings with an efficiency that came from moving or traveling constantly and often with little notice. They were all a fury of movement and here he was in his own apartment, sitting on his ass, doing nothing but watching intently as his refrigerator was emptied and Dad griped half-heartedly that someone should have rented an industrial hose for the decayed vegetable matter that had accumulated over the years.

"You were right, Wilson, when you said his fridge needed to be...what was that?"

"Autoclaved," Jimmy smirked, chuckling at House, who stuck out his tongue at him in response. "Look at it. Of course, I'm right."

_...Sorrow drips into your heart through a pinhole...Just like a faucet that leaks and there is comfort in the sound...But while you debate half-empty and half-full, it slowly rises, your love is going to drown..._

House rolled his eyes and slowly turned the wheelchair to his emptying living room bookcase (Lisa had blinked and shaken her head, asking how in the world someone could have masses in _every single room_ of their apartment; he'd ignored her and went to flip through one just to annoy her) where Mom was holding his yearbook, gently sliding her fingers over the page he knew his picture was in. "You always did hate having your picture taken--look at you scowling. It looks like Tom DeLay's less-chipper mugshot," she smiled fondly. "I'm surprised you kept this. You'd only been there six months."

"There's something drastically wrong with someone who grins during a mugshot--unless you're a teenaged Bill Gates. Then it's just funny. But, I...I figured you might ask to see it one day. I was half right. You didn't ask, just picked it right up..."

Mom had chuckled and peered intently at it just to tease him, but he could see the tears starting to build in her eyes. House breathed deeply, trying not to make it worse. "You can have it. I want you to. You can remember I was grumpy long before anyone else thinks."

Mom had chuckled weakly again and closed the book, going to place it gingerly into one of his other book boxes.

"I'll save it while we unpack," she assured him, leaning down to run a hand over his baseball cap, tracing her fingers over the **NY** emblazoned over the front. There had been a variety of hats presented to him over the past few weeks, but House had rejected them all, saying Jimmy had terrible taste in ties and that it obviously extended to hats, as well. Lisa had snorted elegantly and placed the baseball cap back on his head before telling him that they'd be moving in with her because there was more space and whatever he needed could easily fit anywhere he wanted. The bribe of a room large enough for both his heirloom writing desk and bed instantly sold him on the deal. His smaller work desk in his current living room was getting to be too small as it was covered in medical journals, other seemingly random texts, and his new laptop to add to the clutter.

He had previously saved that desk for only what he'd deemed essential: everything he'd inherited and a precious few things he'd procured on his own. His mother had pointed out that it would make more sense to use all the empty space in the shelves and drawers to hold the texts and journals, leaving the desktop itself free for his laptop and whatever else he wanted. He'd muttered things about it being 'profane' and 'indecent' and 'it's more than sixty years old and no way would anything modern ever sit on it.' Blythe had sighed, kissed his covered head and assured him that she didn't think D.B. or her mother would mind if he utilized it for his professional passions, as they'd done the same thing.

House had frowned and blinked sadly before finally nodding and Blythe had hugged him, secretly glad when (for the first time in his life) he'd voluntarily leaned into her touch and stayed there for at least a minute, tears coming to her eyes as she felt warmth spreading and seeping into the shoulder of her blouse and she'd continued to hold him, blinking valiantly until he'd fallen asleep before lying him gently back on his bed and shifting him upward, her shoulders hitching, tears sliding down her own face at how easily she could move him now, and laying his head on his pillow before covering his pajama pant and t-shirt clad body in blankets and surrounding him with two of the large body pillows that covered the big bed.

Blythe was careful not to disturb the PICC line James had inserted a week before to give House the nutrition the constant vomiting was robbing him of, contributing liberally to the further weight loss. It had helped a good deal and he'd recovered enough to demand to go with Robert to his apartment regarding some agreement they'd made while he was in the ICU. She'd gone into the bathroom then, closing the door that hadn't been in years, and cried silently, wishing that none of it were true, that he was still healthy and strong and even if not whole, then at least self-reliant. He'd stubbornly managed to do just that for as long as he could, making only the minimal adjustments to his apartment that he'd allow. His independent streak was still there, she knew, but this monster inside him (she couldn't think of it any other way) was slowly undermining it, dragging him under and she hated that she couldn't rescue him.

She cried because he was disappearing right before her eyes. She was losing him and there wasn't anything she could do about it.

_...Steal all my children if I don't pay the ransom...And I'll never see them again..._

...TBC...


	11. Chapter 11

**Disintegration**  
_By Angelfirenze_

**Disclaimer:** Shore, Jacobs, Singer, et al., own everything House-related. Rowling owns 'some guy named Snape'. The lyrics belong to various bands. The references, quotes and--sometimes--lines, books, and movies mentioned belong to the authors and script writers who wrote them, etc. The toilet incident is all me. The journal entry I wrote years later is just as shocked and awed. I was actually twelve at the time. Yay.

**Summary:** "Now that I have your attention, I have the pleasure of being able to say I might not see you for at least a few blessed months. Maybe if we both write to Santa, it'll be years."

**Rating: FRM** for language and other objectionable subject matter.

**Pairing:** None, really. It was originally going to be House/Cuddy, but my muse has decided that this will be a gen fic rather than het. At least that's the way it's turning out. I think I'll go with it.

Reviews are always encouraged and appreciated.

_...And all the things that I wish I had not said...Are played endlessly 'til it's madness in my head..._

"I'm sorry I punched you."

Dad's voice was so quiet, so...nervous...that Rob barely understood it at first. They were sitting in Rob's living room, Dad curled up on the couch, his already unruly hair on end and his eyes heavy-lidded with recent sleep. Rob was sitting at the desk Blythe and John--his grandparents, they insisted on saying and he half-heartedly protested before giving in at Blythe's loving glare--had bought him from IKEA. It was a sort of draftsman's desk with an underlight that he believed he would find useful for examining x-rays and scans of new cases. Having only been Head of Diagnostics for a month a half, however, he was still spending the majority of his time working on his paper (it seemed that until his full worth had been proven, Cuddy seemed loathe to let him loose just yet) and so he instead visited with his father often, trying anything to keep him from climbing the walls in boredom. The fact that Dad usually didn't have the energy to leave his bed most days now wasn't mentioned. They could all see the anger on his face and didn't wanted to worsen it.

As it was, Dad slept most of the days away now, the only means of temporal orientation being twice-daily trips to the bathroom and the bi-weekly trek to the hospital for treatments. Blythe took care of helping dress and undress him. After that, breakfast (when he had an appetite, which wasn't often) and flipping through the satellite channels with John. Rob found himself fascinated, watching John and Dad take turns overrunning and complaining about the narrators during the various documentaries they watched. It wasn't until he'd spent so much time with them that he could see how alike the two of them really were. He especially found it funny that they, themselves, couldn't seem to tell at all.

As it was, most of their time together was spent in silence with Dad sleeping and Rob studying journals and working on his dissertation. He was up to nearly hundred and fifty pages now and John jokingly asked, "Are you writin' a novel, or somethin', son?"

Rob had rolled his eyes, shook his head, and went back to scouring the _New England Journal of Medicine_, leaving John to snort and shake his head in turn. He didn't know how much time had passed since then, but his grandfather seemed to be busy elsewhere now and Dad was staring at him with glassy, saddened eyes.

"What are you talking about?" Rob asked now, glancing up and briefly taking in Dad's limp form curled in the blankets.

"Oh, come on," Dad frowned, pain visible in his face, and Rob looked up again, this time stricken at the contempt he heard. "_Surely_ you wouldn't forget me detoxing and nearly killing a patient, you solving the case at the last possible moment, and me showing you my gratitude by cold-cocking you."

Dad was breathing hard now and Rob wished he wouldn't speak so much all at once, but knew there was no stopping him when he got going.

"Maybe I didn't think it was worth remembering," Rob said calmly, giving Dad a level stare. "It's not like any of us were at our best. Tritter was making our lives a living hell. You weren't being treated properly for your pain and it was taking a toll. I'm sure if I'd been you, I'd've wanted to hit something, too. I did, actually, after he tried to make it look like I was screwing with you..."

Rob felt his voice peter out, a flush creeping up his face, and he looked back down at the scrawl of his latest notes. "Again."

He could feel Dad's subsequent scowl burning into his skin and wanted to shrink away. "I'll make you a deal. You're sorry you ratted me out to Vogler, I'm sorry I punched you. They're over and done with, never to be mentioned again. Deal?"

Rob looked up again, chewing his lip. He sighed. "Deal."

"Right, so no more of this Catholic self-flagellating--"

"Dad."

Dad frowned slightly, glancing at the ceiling and then sighing. "Sorry. Religion hasn't exactly brought out the best in those near and dear to me."

"What about your mum's cooking? Or Wilson's?"

Dad's lips quirked into a bit of a grin, then, and he nodded reluctantly. "Fine. The cooking's good, but--"

"But nothing. Wilson spoils you and so does your mum."

"They would if I could keep any of it down."

"Your meds aren't working?" Now Rob felt worry consuming him, hoping...praying. _God, please, no..._

Dad took a breath, frowning at the expression that must have been on Rob's face. "It's just been a while since I had the energy to try. I guess I'll have to give it a trial run."

Rob sighed in relief and turned on his stool, pushing backward with his legs until he reached the phone that sat on the shelf under the window. "No time like the present."

But Dad held up his hand. "I have appointments to keep as it is. Let's see how those go before you go consigning me to a smorgasbord I won't be able to finish."

Rob bit his lip to hide the smile trying to emerge and placed the handset back on the base. "Want to play chess?"

Dad shook his head, opting to read Kierkegaard instead. Chase had discovered a chess set while unpacking Dad's and Wilson's things after the move to Cuddy's house. Dad had stared at it for a moment before taking it from him and removing the carved lid that doubled as the board. The black marble and soapstone pieces were separated by a partition and he reached into the right side to remove a soapstone rook, rubbing his fingers over the smooth surface, his eyes seeming to look at something nobody else could see.

That night he'd asked Rob if he knew how to play chess. Rob had shaken his head in the negative and Dad had scowled. "So you were taught how to swear in six different languages, but actually amusing yourself productively was left to the wayside? No wonder you're addicted to crossword puzzles. Though, in theory, you should be better at filling out the clues."

"Hey, not all of us got to spend hours in front of the television!" Rob had protested, jokingly, knowing his grandfather had probably not allowed anything of the sort.

"I didn't watch much television, actually. I mostly overheard it and then it was usually the news. I liked the radio and piano better anyway."

Rob had nodded, then, and Dad had proceeded to teach him how to play. He spanked Rob soundly the first six games, but Rob finally won the seventh. "You're not hopeless," Dad had told him and he'd smiled.

They usually tried to get in at least one game a week now, especially since Rob was still in the process of writing his paper and the Bayside poster he'd ordered for his office hadn't arrived yet. He'd lent all of their albums to his father, who had listened to them one after another. After removing his headphones, Dad had nodded in approval and said sardonically, "Well, at least you're not listening to Bri--"

"I _never_ listened to Britney Spears, thank you very much," Rob had cut him off, resisting the urge to throw something at him. "Which is your favorite?"

Dad thought for a moment, turning the CD cases over one by one and lining them up so the names of the songs were visible on the lid of his piano, which now sat in the sixth and last free bedroom. "'Head on a Plate', I think, and 'They Looked Like Strong Hands'. 'How to Fix Everything.'"

Rob had nodded. "I like 'Winter', the song they dedicated to their drummer."

"The one who died in that car crash." Chase looked surprised.

Dad took a breath. "I looked them up after you told me about them. I was curious."

Rob gave him a little smile. "You're always curious."

"If I was a cat, I'd've been dead a long time ago. Or so my father says."

Rob snorted and took his vitals while Dad rolled his eyes. "I think I want my own copies. Maybe I could sneak them into Jimmy's CD player and see how long it takes before he bursts into tears."

Rob had laughed, then, reminding Dad how mean he was. "Duh," Dad had told him. He then wheeled his chair over to the wall of music he and Wilson had built and pulled out a random record sleeve just a bit before sliding it back into place. With that, he rolled over to his piano and Rob helped transfer him to the bench. He'd spent the next three hours playing Air Supply on piano while complaining about how geeky Wilson was behind his back and continuing to do so after Wilson came home, much to his annoyance.

"You know the songs!" Wilson protested, gesturing at the piano. "You know the notes to the music!"

"I, like Fox Mulder, am cursed with an eidetic memory," Dad reminded him, abruptly switching to 'Synonym for Acquiesce' from Bayside's first album and chuckling when Chase did a double take. "I like this room," he said, smiling.

"You'd better," Cuddy told him from the doorway, a smirk on her face. "Because you're lucky I had the space. You two are insane. I never intended for this room to be a testament to you two and your neverending quest to perforate your eardrums." He and Wilson had been given leeway by Cuddy to put all their music related things into this room and they'd spent hours cataloguing and combining their collections to the point where John had remarked that they were fanatics and dinner was getting cold so the rest could wait.

"You never meant for it to be anything, evidently," Dad reminded her pointedly. "Because it was mostly bare if I recall correctly."

Lisa rolled her eyes before walking off and Dad muttered about finding them on the floor one day.

_...I asked her to stay, but she wouldn't listen..._

That night, House fell asleep curled in the middle of a pile of his albums and Wilson had carefully picked him up, trying to ignore how light his friend was, and carried him to his bed before spending the rest of the night organizing his own things with alphabetized sticky-notes stuck onto the ends of certain covers to remind House where everything was. Around dawn, Wilson had gone to check House's vitals and found Lisa doing so herself.

"I can't believe we have to sneak in like a couple of vandals, tiptoeing and whispering as though we're doing something...wrong...and do this when he's asleep."

"Yes, you do," Lisa then reminded him and she gave him the BP cuff. "You know exactly why."

"I just I wish I could..."

"All of us do," Lisa had said quietly, tears barely visible in her eyes. "All we can do now is hope we have a chance to ask his forgiveness."

"He already forgave you. That much is obvious," Wilson whispered, his eyes glued to the pale form of his friend below them. "Meanwhile, Blythe had to expressly ask him if he'd allow me to put in a PICC line. He'd flatly refused, if you remember."

"He forgave--"

"No, he hasn't. He's just working on it." Wilson's voice was dejected but Lisa fixed him with a dark blue stare that made him gasp.

"If he's working on it for John then I know damned well he's working on it for you, too. John House, _if you remember_, is the reason why Greg has so little trust to spare in the first place."

Wilson didn't reply to that, so she nudged him, telling him, "Go to sleep. You're getting to be as bad as House was."

"Want me to start bursting into sterilized ORs at random?"

"Don't. You. Dare."

Wilson did as he was told, managing a smile for the first time in a very long while.

_...And he said one word to me and that was 'dead'..._

Stacy Warner dragged a comb through her wet hair, listening to whatever nonsense Mark had left playing on the television. She sighed, exhaling audibly, and wrapped her bathrobe more tightly around herself. Sidestepping the bed, she crept out into the hall and down toward the den. Taking a few more breaths to steel herself, she picked up the phone and dialed Greg's home number.

**I'm sorry; the number you have dialed is no longer in service--**

She blinked and stared at the phone in a mild state of shock. Greg hadn't changed his number even after they'd broken up. _After you left_, a tiny, callous voice that sounded more like the man she was trying to reach than she was willing to admit. Frowning and throwing caution to the wind, she reset the dial-tone and punched in Lisa's number. She was absolutely certain that if Greg had changed his number--because he certainly hadn't moved--then either Lisa or James had to know about it.

"Stacy?"

Lisa's voice was heavy with exhaustion and, for a moment, Stacy regretted having woken her up. She shoved that aside, however, and got back to the matter at hand. "Lisa, hi. Has Greg...changed his number? I called, but--"

"But that number's no longer in service."

Stacy paused at the strange, unrecognizable tone Lisa's voice had suddenly taken on. "Right. Yes, is...is there something..."

"He's otherwise preoccupied, Stacy," Lisa said in the same, yet now even colder tone. "Is there something you wanted?"

"I wanted to know where Greg is, Lisa, that's why I called."

Stacy listened to Lisa's audible sigh. "Well, right now, he's in bed and there's no way in hell I'm waking him up so don't even ask."

"In bed? It's only..." Stacy checked the clock on the mantel and felt her face crease in disbelief. "It's barely ten o'clock! Greg never--"

"And you would know because?" Lisa's voice was now distinctly chilly. Stacy took another breath and let it out slowly.

"Alright. Obviously, I'm missing something here because I _don't_ know what's going on and I've obviously pissed you off for some reason and you're not going to tell me, so I think I'm going to just hang up and try James now--"

"Don't bother. Here he is."

There was abrupt silence before James Wilson's voice came on the line. "Hello?"

Stacy blinked and gave herself a bit of a shake. "James, hi, what...are you and Lisa...dating?"

"Stacy. No. Is there something you wanted?"

The exact same fucking question. Stacy fought down the urge to slam the phone against the side table and took _another_ breath. "An explanation would be nice. Such as why suddenly the two of you are acting like I--"

"Strung House and Mark up like marionettes while you flitted back and forth between whomever was making you the least uncomfortable at that particular moment in time?"

"I...I didn't--"

"Yes. You did." James' voice was tired, as well, she could hear but, even more, the condemnation in it rang clear. "Why are you calling, Stacy? Don't you have a husband to take care of? Isn't that why you left...or why you said you did after--"

"Okay, what the hell is going on?" Stacy was angry now and had to trouble to keep her voice down lest she wake Mark.

"House is sick, Stacy." Wilson's voice was flat now. Quiet and shaking, though she could barely tell.

"Sick? Sick, how?"

"Why do you care?"

"What the hell kind of question is that to ask?" Stacy snarled, pulling the phone away from her face and staring at it as though it had attempted to bite her. She pressed the headset back to her ear and whispered sharply, "How in the hell can you even ask me that?"

"Because it's a question we've all had to answer. Now's your turn."

Then James hung up on her.

_I weave like a one-armed boxer, throwing punch after punch...After punch, I...I give in--I'm so dumb, I'm surprised when they duck..._

John House helped ease Greg out of the passenger seat of the car, careful to grip underneath his arms and not too hard. He knew that Greg bruised easily, the weight his son was slowly regaining hard won and well-deserved. He was vigilant not to do anything that would harm the fragile form in his care. It was a charge he took seriously and without reservation. Part of him wondered if he was trying to make up somehow for all he hadn't done before. Most of him refused to think about it, but a tiny little bit of him thought he should have felt this way long before, when Greg was new, bright, and untarnished. That fraction couldn't shake the idea that this was his second chance. He felt Greg's groan of exhaustion more than heard it as he lowered his son's haggard form into his wheelchair and pushed him through the sliding glass doors and into the second of two hospitals he'd come to know so well in the previous months. He and Blythe had gone back for a short trip to Nyack, quickly packing up their old house and moving to one in Princeton instead. It wasn't far from either Greg, Lisa, and James--he no longer called him 'Wilson', being as involved in each other's lives as they were now--nor Robert, and something about that filled him with a strange sense of wholeness. Base living had kept his family more or less separated for most of Greg's life. Blythe's family in New England had seen more of her and their son than his in Ohio had of him and for a long time he hadn't been able to understand just what was so...he couldn't find a word to describe their closeness, even thousands of miles apart, but he was sure that if he asked his wife or son, they'd be able to tell him one.

"As much fun as it's been staring at a bank of elevators for the last five minutes, Dad," Greg's quiet, strained voice drifted up from in front of him and John snapped back to the present. "I'm sure Coopersmith won't be too pleased to be deprived of the chance to poke and prod me with needles. It's fun, you know."

John frowned, thinking of the bruises tracing Greg's arms and chest and grunted, "Somehow, I'm disinclined to agree."

"Nobody likes me, everybody hates me..." Greg sang quietly and John resisted the urge to frown.

"That's not true, kid," he said quietly, leaning forward to press the up button and hearing the ding of an elevator to their left.

"Maybe not to you," Greg mumbled, shifting slightly in his wheelchair.

"Damned right," John said quietly, a small smile coming to his face, and when he went to stand next to Greg once they'd boarded the elevator car, he was more happy than he could say about the hint of a smirk that now graced his son's pale visage.

The drive down the Massachusetts General Hospital had been spent mostly in silence, with Greg asleep in the front seat for nearly all of it. John had turned the dial to National Public Radio and left the volume low, gripping the wheel firmly as he heard about the latest death tolls from the war in Iraq. He'd been for it at first, as Blythe reminded him from time to time. He wished he'd realized what was going to happen before now. Perhaps he wouldn't feel like some of the blood of his fellow soldiers was on his hands. When he'd first watched The Daily Show with Greg and James, he'd been surprised to see a Marine he recognized corresponding for a liberal satirical 'Fake News' show. He'd been convinced that there were no liberals in the military. Greg was quite happy to disabuse him of that notion and now made it a point to watch Countdown with Keith Olbermann, The Daily Show, and the oddly pronounced 'Colbert Report' with his father as often as he could. He thought that Greg would take the chance to make as many jokes as possible, but mostly they watched with little conversation and more chuckling, save for Greg and James complaining about the commercials that came on in between segments. When John told him he knew Major Robert Riggle, Greg had shrugged a bit and told him that he figured as much.

"He's a good kid," John had told him and Greg had gestured toward the television, where Riggle was dressed in some purported 'post-apocalyptic' get-up made of football padding, complaining about gas prices while Jon Stewart egged him on.

"Well, duh, Dad. Though, I think John Oliver's funnier."

"That Oliver's British," John had griped and Greg had risen an eyebrow at him.

"Two words: Cambridge Footlights." James had laughed, then, and John had looked at them both.

"I don't even know what that means."

"We'll have another chat when you do."

John had sighed and watched the rest of the program, noting that Greg owned a lot of the books Stewart and Colbert covered in their interviews. He's always wondered where Greg got the time to be so well-read, not having taken a real vacation in what he has found out was more than six years, but he supposes that with all the free time he now had, Greg would be diving through more books than ever.

He hasn't been disappointed. When Greg wasn't sleeping, he was usually reading. Blythe would ask him how many books he'd plowed through that week and he'd name a figure and she'd laugh and tell him that that was her boy. Greg would sigh and blush a bit, but go back to his books all the same.

_Better than watching Geller bending silver spoons...Better than witnessing newborn nebulaes in bloom...She who sees from up high smiles and surely sings...Perspective pries your once weighty eyes and it gives you wings..._

Now they sat again in Mass Gen's triage room, Greg getting yet another ID bracelet and some tube or other fixed onto his PICC line. He was thoroughly bored with the entire process and felt that rereading a printout of something or other was a better use of his time. John knew better than to ask what it was. It was either medical jargon or stories printed off the internet written by fans of that weird book series Greg, James, Robert, and three quarters of the known universe followed avidly. Lately, Greg and Robert had been having discussions about the motivations of some guy named Snape.

John didn't see what the big deal was, but figured anything that kept Greg from blowing up the house like he'd almost done when he was eight was a good thing.

Robert had laughed in complete disbelief as Blythe told him of the time when she asked Greg to clean the bathroom and he'd thought he'd expedite the process by adding 'a little of this and a little of that' or something along those lines. Little had anyone known at the time, least of all Greg, the boy had accidentally made mustard gas in the toilet.

"I was _eight_," Greg griped as John shook his head for the millionth time. "How the hell was I supposed to know that mixing Comet and Pine-Sol was a bad idea?"

"_Bad idea?_" Lisa had burst out from the other side of her kitchen, looking beseechingly at Blythe. "We're lucky your son still has a face! And that we use chlorinated drinking water. _Please_ tell me you bought him a chemistry book after that."

"He bought himself one," Blythe had responded resignedly. "He wanted to know _why_ I'd been so upset. Wanted to know _why_ I was so relieved he'd been cleaning the toilet at the time."

"All I'd wanted to do was make a more powerful cleaning solution!" Greg scowled, leaving John to chuckle. "Oh, you laugh now, but you weren't happy at the time."

"Of course I wasn't!" John confirmed vehemently. "We ran upstairs, half expecting the bathroom to be blown to bits and you with it!"

"I was just trying to get it done faster," Greg groused, digging a spoon into his oatmeal.

John sighed and shook his head. "I know, kiddo, I know."

"Dr. House," an irritated voice broke into Greg's concentration and he looked up in equal vexation. They were in Radiology now, the bright lights behind the walls making spots dance before his eyes.

"Unless you're hiding scans behind your back, leave me alone. I'm just getting to the good part."

"You've read that before," John reminded him, eyeing the two hundred or so pages of the green and yellow book Greg still had to reread and wondering how all of it could be 'the good part'.

"Yeah, but now Snape's 'done a bunk' and the battle's about to begin."

"Done a what?"

"Ask Robbie," Greg said, burrowing more deeply into the book and effectively ending the conversation before John sighed and gently removed the offending tome from his hands.

"Thank you," Dr. Coopersmith said in a clearly annoyed voice before revealing Greg's chart. He removed several black plastic sheets from the folder he held in his other hand and slipped them into the crevices of the lighted walls with sharp little cracks. "Now that I have your attention, I have the pleasure of being able to say I might not see you for at least a few blessed months. Maybe if we both write to Santa, it'll be years."

"You still believe in Santa Claus? What are you, six?" Greg asked with faked derision, but John was staring at the scans. He's seen the ones from months ago, before the chemotherapy and the surgeries and the drug trials. He's learned to recognize the masses that have inhibited his son's brain functions for so long. He finds his breath catching in his chest to see that there's nothing there now but the blurry white clouded shapes that represent Greg's brain. No holes signifying tumors. He looks at Greg's eyes, so often glassy and unfocused, and sees the hard, inquiring stare he's missed for seemingly an eternity.

"Remission," Greg says, his head tilting to the left. "No metastasis to my CNS?"

"Your LP results reveal no evidence of anything out of the ordinary, no."

"Some _real_ doctor speak would be nice," Greg said softly. "I miss it."

"And I need you to get the hell out of here. Preferably never to return."

Greg faked a pout, then, "You're not sorry to see me go?"

Coopersmith favored him with a malevolent grin. "Did I mention the 'House is Gone' party we have scheduled? We're cutting the cake at four."

"I want the voodoo doll and candles forwarded to Cuddy's house."

"Whatever. Just get out and never darken our doorstep again."

John laughed and even Greg couldn't keep the smile off his face.

"Have you heard of the term 'kiss my--'" John clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Oh, hush, boy. Goodbye, doctor."

He didn't laugh until they were back in the car. Greg stared at him the whole way home.

_...My biggest fear will be the rescue of me...Strange how it turns out that way..._

END


End file.
